


All I Want

by thejabberwocky



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Break Up, Depression, Divorce, Explicit Language, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self Confidence Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3793621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwocky/pseuds/thejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Behati left him, the part of Adam that was always tender and fragile broke.  When Blake called him worthless without using the word, Adam shattered."</p><p>Adam says he's just fine; everyone else knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is a work of fiction. As far as I know, both Adam and Blake's marriages are solid, and I have no desire to see them be otherwise.
> 
> 2\. I'm sorry for the quality of this work. I wrote it drunk in a haze of feelings after watching a clip on The Voice YouTube channel where Blake says some seriously awful things to Adam (for real, it's heartbreaking, go watch it). So, this is based around real events and involves season 8's contestants. (However, as of this writing, all I know is that Deanna is in the top 10. Everything after that is something I'm using for the sake of the story.)
> 
> 3\. There will be a happier part 2 to this, but for now, please heed the warnings. If you're triggered by descriptions of depression, self-esteem issues, and/or suicidal ideation, then please do not read this work. If you are feeling depressed and/or suicidal, then please, please, please call your local hotline or talk to a friend or family member.

* * *

 

 

When Behati leaves him, something in Adam—something that had already, had always, been fragile—breaks.  


* * *

 

  
Adam begs her to come back, at first—of course he does, he _loves_ her, feels like he can't live without her, feels like the air is suddenly sucked out of the room, like he's going to asphyxiate right there, when she says that she's leaving and she isn't coming back.

“We aren't working,” she'd told him. That had been her one and only reason, her only explanation. “I can't do this.”

Adam doesn't understand, because she hasn't _explained_. He thought that they were good—great, even. The way he felt when he was with her was like—it was like sitting on the warm, breezy beach in late afternoon; it was like melting into his most challenging yoga poses effortlessly and achieving that feeling of easy pleasure at a new accomplishment; it was like the heated buzz in his fingertips after three shots of tequila. Behati felt like home and happiness, and he'd thought she felt the same.

He'd thought wrong.  


* * *

  
Adam doesn't tell anyone. She goes to New York, asking him not to follow her (and he doesn't, because it's the one explicit request she's made of him since saying that she's leaving him, and he doesn't know what to _do_ ). He leaves her voicemail after voicemail, texts her constantly, emails her, everything he can think of, for a week.

He finally gets a call back from her. “The papers should get to the house by Thursday,” she says, and he feels his head spin, feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, as he realizes that she's talking about _divorce papers_ , “and I'd really appreciate it if you'd sign them as soon as you can.”

“I--” Adam wonders why she's so eager to split, so _ready_ to go, and asks, “Is there someone else?”

The pause is long enough to make Adam's stomach roil in anxiety, his leg bouncing up and down, his dogs looking at him in concern. “No,” she says finally. “There isn't, for me. But there could be, and—I just can't, Adam.”

Adam gets the papers, signs them, and gets black out drunk.  


* * *

  
He gets a call from his mother the next morning—too goddamn early, his pounding head says, answering the phone with his eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window—and Adam tries to sound normal, but it's his mother, and they've always been ridiculously close (the “Mom” tattoo isn't there to look cool, he meant it when he got it and still does), and she can tell right away that something's wrong.

“I'm just having some issues with Bee,” he says, thinking about the papers he'd dropped into the mailbox the night before.

“Oh, is that all?” his mother asks, sounding relieved. “As in love as the two of you are, I'm sure you'll be fine.”

Adam chokes, doesn't know if the validation of what he'd thought (how in love they'd been, how wrapped up in each other, how good and _right_ they'd been with each other) makes it better that she left him (he couldn't have seen it coming, right?) or worse (because how badly would he have had to fuck up to make her leave if she truly did love him as much as they all thought?).

It makes his already throbbing head pound that much harder to think about it, so he sighs and says, “Thanks, Mom. Love you—I'll call.”

Adam hangs up, and he doesn't call back, and he doesn't answer her calls.  


* * *

  
He doesn't tell anyone that she left him, doesn't tell anyone that she's gone. He—truthfully—tells his band mates, when they ask about her, that she's in New York. They assume it's for work. He doesn't correct them.  


* * *

  
Adam talks to CeeLo, of all people, a day or two after that call from his mother. He frowns at the display—an obnoxiously flamboyant picture of the other man, all sequins and sunglasses and feathers—and answers tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Hey, brother,” CeeLo says cheerfully. “You've been on my mind lately, and one of your songs just came on the radio—I chose to take it as a sign that I should call you. How you been, man?”

“Fine,” he says (croaks, really, and thank God CeeLo doesn't call him on it). “I—what are you up to?”

CeeLo rambles at him for the next twenty minutes about the amazing charity he's been working with, and the people he's met because of it—“You'd like 'em a lot, man, I'm tellin' you.”—and Adam lets his old friend's voice wash over him, comforting and smooth and low. He “mm”s and “oh, really?”s in all the right places to make CeeLo keep talking, taking in only vague intimations of what the other is talking about.

“Adam,” CeeLo says after an unusually long pause, “you doin' okay? For real, man, you don't have to lie to me.”

“I'm fine,” Adam lies, then sighs out loud. “I will be, I guess—I'm just having a rough time, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you got that 'cosmic sign' and called me.”

CeeLo chuckles. “Of course, brother. You know I love you and I miss you like crazy, right?”

“Same here, man.”

“And if you need anything,” CeeLo tells him, “anything at all, you call me. Day or night, my man, and I'll come runnin' 'cause I care about you and I wanna make sure everything's all good with you.”

“I—yeah,” Adam says, his eyes burning as he tries not to cry because he's _missed_ this so much, CeeLo's genuine affection and sincerity. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“Of course, brother. I'll let you go now, I just wanted to make sure I heeded the universe givin' me such a sign, y'know?”

“Yeah. Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime, man.”  


* * *

  
New Year's comes and goes, and then he realizes with a pang that it's time to go back to filming _The Voice_. Adam doesn't want to do it—he doesn't want to do anything, and he hasn't been, really, hasn't been eating or sleeping, just laying in bed, too sad even to cry. He doesn't want to get up and go to work, but the world isn't going to stop spinning just because he got his heart stomped on, so he throws on another white tee and jeans and goes to the studio.

Adam shows up and the other three are already there, chatting about what they've been up to during the break. Christina is leading the conversation since she has the most to catch everyone up on—and Adam almost, almost feels some happiness, some excitement, on seeing her since it's been so fucking long, but his stomach is still too hollow, his heart still beating out of time, and he just can't. Blake gives him a warm grin as he approaches, and Adam summons up a small, tired, insincere smile in return. The country singer doesn't seem to notice, just slings an arm around his shoulders, Adam melting gratefully into his side, and continues chatting with Christina and Pharrell, who pause only briefly to say hello.

Finally, the conversation steers itself towards him, and Adam has to focus instead of letting the soothing waves of his friends' voices wash over him. “You and Bee never did make it out to Tishomingo,” Blake says, and his voice is teasing, light. Adam remembers, vaguely, making some half-assed plan or promise to visit Blake and Miranda in Oklahoma for the holidays. It feels like a lifetime ago, not a few months.

“Yeah, we got pretty busy,” he says, and it's a lame excuse.

Blake frowns at him. “You do look beat. What've you been up to?”

Adam thinks about it for half a second—he's been laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, or the walls, or the comforter, and then when night actually comes, he's been ambling about his giant, too-dark, too-empty, too-quiet house like a ghost with no idea of what to do with himself.

“Lots of writing, mostly,” he lies. “You know how I get caught up in it when I've got too many ideas.” Blake nods, his easy grin returning.  


* * *

(Adam briefly thinks about telling Blake about Behati, but—Blake's own marriage has seen its fair share of hard times, between Miranda's drinking and Blake's own, and their naturally strong-willed, unyielding personalities, and Adam can't stomach, can't fathom the idea of telling his friend how he'd failed, how he'd fucked everything up.)  


* * *

The blind auditions start, and Adam fucks that up, too. He's too desperate, he can feel it, he can sense it, and he knows that everyone else can feel it, but he can't _stop_. He wants someone, anyone, to choose him, to tell him how happy they are that he picked them; he wants to help someone; he wants to do right for someone else the way that he can't seem to for himself. He wants—craves—that validation, and he scares everyone off. Adam leaves the opening night festivities at a local restaurant after one drink, claiming that he's tired and has a song to finish.

“Don't stay up too late,” Christina says playfully. “You need to be back on your A-game tomorrow!” Adam smiles at her, and then shakes his head. Pharrell wishes him goodnight briefly, as does Carson, and Blake--

Blake gloats, as he does, about the artists who've picked him and not Adam. And, okay, normally, Adam would be annoyed, but not—he's actually _hurt_ , because, yeah, he didn't tell Blake what's going on with him, but shouldn't he be able to see that something's wrong? Shouldn't he be able to see that now really isn't the time to be giving Adam shit?

He bids Blake a terse goodnight, and gets up the next morning to go back to the studio without having slept at all.  


* * *

 

 

When he watches the footage of _that moment_ later—not aired on television, thank God, just posted online—Adam winces at the expression on his own face. He hadn't realized how blatantly hurt and borderline angry he'd seemed, how close to the surface his emotions were in that instant—this whole time.

“You're the only artist that I've ever met that I hope changes one day. Like, I hope your personality changes with all this fame, because it can't get worse, it can only get better. You know what I'm sayin'? I feel like you started out an asshole, and now, maybe, you'll turn into a good guy. _Fuck_.”

Blake saying that to him—in front of _everyone—_ with Christina between them, laughing like it's fucking hilarious, like Adam's best fucking friend isn't delivering a verbal punch in the gut—it _hurts_. A hell of a lot.

He turned to the audience and quipped, “He doesn't meant it!” He was relieved when they laughed, and wished that he could believe what he told them, but Blake had sounded so serious, so genuine—not even _angry_ , which Adam could've handled, he could've believed that Blake didn't mean it if he'd said it in anger...

* * *

  
Carson pulls him aside, after that, the next break they get. He looks serious, and there's a little bit of anger in his eyes—Adam wonders if he's mad because he drove Blake off of the set and into his trailer, fucking up the film schedule for the day.

“He was so out of line with that,” Carson bites out, and Adam blinks in surprise. “Are you okay? God, what an ass.”

“I—yeah, I'm fine,” Adam assures Carson, ignoring the way that the pit in his stomach seems to be digging down deeper and deeper. “He didn't mean it.” Carson looks livid, and Adam frowns—is that all aimed at Blake? Probably not, he realizes, because Adam _did_ set him off--

“I'll have a talk with him,” Carson says. “He can't say that shit to you—to anyone, really—but especially not to you.”

“No, don't—it's fine, seriously. He was just mad,” Adam pleads, and Carson seems to soften at the desperation in Adam's tone. “He'll get over it, and we'll hug it out, like always.”

Carson seems appeased after that, and although Adam and Blake do “hug it out” (on camera, too), Adam doesn't forget what Blake said. How could he?

Adam doesn't go out with them that night, citing a very real headache. He knows his head is throbbing because he hasn't been eating enough, and Christina smirks at him, and he knows that she knows he's really going home to lick his wounds. Pharrell—he's such a nice fucking guy that it makes Adam want to scream sometimes with how perfect a human being he seems—tells him to feel better and call if he needs anything, with Carson echoing the statement, and Blake--

Blake says nothing. Blake doesn't look at Adam, doesn't wave at him, doesn't even acknowledge him. Adam is almost grateful, thinking that he might start crying if Blake looks him in the eye.

Yeah, it fucking hurt to have his wife leave him, but they didn't even make it to a year. Adam can accept that he fucked up, that he didn't have enough time to figure his shit out, to figure out how to be good enough to keep her, but Blake? He's known Blake longer, thought he knew Blake better, thought that when everyone else was gone (even, apparently, his own goddamn _wife_ ) he'd still have Blake at his side, rooting for him. And then “I hate everything about you, I hope you change everything you are” and “you're such a failure, you can't do anything right” had practically come out of Blake's mouth. He hadn't said those exact words, sure, but Adam could read between the lines.

When Behati left him, the part of Adam that was always tender and fragile broke. When Blake called him worthless without using the word, Adam shattered.  


* * *

  
That night, he gets drunk again—really fucking drunk, so drunk he can't stand and ends up spending the night curled up with his dogs on the kitchen floor—for the second time since Behati left him. Adam works his way steadily through a bottle of vodka and tries not to think about Blake, tries not to cry, tries so hard to be stronger than this.

It hits him around drink number seven that Blake wasn't wrong to say what he did. Adam was the one who instigated all of that encounter—he was the one who proposed a truce, an alliance, and then broke it, rallying for the other coaches instead of Blake. (Adam doesn't really know why he did that, other than to rile Blake up, because he's been so bad this season at judging their usual banter from what's going too far, with a lack of emotions to guide him, just that empty, hollow, twisting, painful pit in his stomach and chest.)

Then the more painful realization comes: that Blake was right. If Adam had been different, had been better, had been a _good guy_ , then maybe Behati would've stayed.

He wasn't good enough, he wasn't _good_ , he was just—this pathetic _creature_ people tolerated because they seemed to get some entertainment value from him.

It wracks sobs from Adam, finally, for the first time, when he realizes that Blake's just been kind enough, this whole time, to tolerate Adam and his ridiculous behavior, the stupid things he says. The truth is coming out now, though, he knows, because he's too much to handle, and still not enough for anyone.

* * *

 

Adam pretends nothing happened the next day, though he shows up wearing sunglasses for the first half of filming. Christina frowns at him while they grab Starbucks.

“Hungover?” she asks, and Adam nods, not seeing the point in lying. “You should have water, then, to make sure you don't get dehydrated.” Her concern is in earnest, but Adam wishes she wouldn't waste it. He gives the other coach what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I'm fine,” he lies sunnily, and Christina nods slowly.

“If you're sure.”

* * *

Blake doesn't acknowledge what he said, and neither does anyone else. Adam doesn't bring it up, and takes Blake's lead in their banter. If it's a little more competitive, a little meaner than it was before, Adam figures it's because Blake is finally tiring of him. Adam pulls away from his friend, grateful that he'd put up with Adam at all for as long as he had, and sad that he'd finally driven Blake away.

* * *

Adam starts taking his lunch breaks in his trailer alone, figuring that if he minimizes the amount of time everyone else has to spend with him, he can make them hate him a little less. (That's a vain hope, he knows, because he's too annoying, too stupid, too arrogant to be tolerated, and he should really just leave them all alone. So he does.)

Pharrell knocks on his trailer door after a week of this. He looks concerned and—Adam winces—irritated.

“Hey, Adam,” he says, his voice simultaneously too cautious and too chipper, “I just wanted to swing by. Say hey.”

“Hey,” Adam parrots, and Pharrell's lips twitch in a small, but real smile, and Adam feels his jaw unclench.

“Ha,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. “I just wanted to see if you're okay.”

“I'm fine,” Adam lies again. “Why?”

“You've been holing yourself up in here whenever you get the chance,” Pharrell says slowly, “and you're losing weight, too. Are you sick or something?”

Adam seizes onto that idea like a life raft. “I haven't been feeling too great,” he says honestly. “My stomach's been... touchy.” Pharrell nods sympathetically. It's happened before to Adam, they all know it; he'll go through periods where, usually because of stress (although they don't know that and they don't need to), his body will rebel at the mere mention of food.

“Just be careful,” Pharrell tells him, the irritation gone, “make sure you're eating enough, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Adam assures him—he doesn't want them to worry; he's enough of a bother already. He sneaks half a sandwich onto the set, turning it into a bit, making the audience laugh and making Pharrell grin at him, acknowledging his effort.

He doesn't want them to worry, not about him, not when he doesn't deserve it.  


* * *

He has Deanna's rendition of “All I Want” rattling around his head that night when he gets drunk again. Her _voice_ was—it was incredible. _She_ was incredible—the longing, the need, the pain in her voice—it was just breathtaking the way she was able to convey all of that feeling. She'd been so captivating that he almost didn't turn around in time, he'd been so caught up in the music, the sound of her voice.

Adam's humming that song to himself, drinking tequila on the floor in his living room (he can't fall down if he's already down, he rationalizes) when he decides it's a good idea to call James.

“Hey, man,” he says, trying to sound normal, sober, happy. “I just wanted to talk to you about something with the band.”

“Yeah? What's up, got some new ideas?” James asks.

“Actually,” Adam pauses, then clears his throat. “I was thinking we should take a break for a while. If, y'know, that's good with you guys.”

“Is something wrong?” James asks immediately, because Adam's asked for breaks before, but they were always specific things—breaks from touring, from the studio, from songwriting. He has never before wanted a break from the band.

“I just—I'm a little stressed out,” Adam says, “and I think I need a break. I wouldn't be any good for the band like this anyway.”

“Adam--” There's a noise on the other end of the line, someone else talking. “I'll talk to the guys, and see what everyone thinks.”

“Okay,” he says, “thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” James asks.

“Not really,” Adam answers.

“It's just—I've been watching the show, and the dynamic seems off. _You_ seem off, man,” James keeps talking, and Adam bites his lip, tilting the bottle of tequila to swirl the liquid around. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Adam lies. “Just the pace of everything is finally getting to me. There's so much on my plate, you know?”

“Sure,” James says, sounding a little skeptical. He repeats his promise to talk to the rest of the band, and they hang up.

Adam cries again. He'd known he was worthless—less than, even, a _burden_ , an annoyance—but to have his band talked so easily into giving up on him when he'd thought they were like family— _that_ hurt, it cut deep.  


* * *

The following day—a day off from filming—Blake shows up at Adam's door. Adam answers in loose yoga pants, his hair mussed because he hasn't showered yet today. He still smells like alcohol, and Blake gives him a critical once-over before gesturing in a silent request to come inside. Adam steps aside to let him in.

“James called me this mornin',” Blake says without preamble, and Adam sighs. He'd known he was trouble, but he'd been hoping that the guys wouldn't pass him off to someone else, would just let it lie. Obviously, they didn't. “He said you wanted to take a break from the band—totally, it sounded like. What's that about?”

“I've just got some other stuff going on, and it's tough to juggle everything right now,” he says. “He's making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Were you drinkin' when you made that call?” Adam grimaces.

“Now _that's_ a hypocritical question,” he mutters under his breath, and judging from Blake's hard stare, he heard him. Adam feels himself flush, and crosses his arms over his chest. Louder, he continues, “I don't know why he called. I'm really sorry he bothered you.”

Something in Blake's expression shifts, and he doesn't look angry anymore—he looks frustrated, mostly. “Adam, what in the hell is going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven't been acting like yourself this whole season,” Blake snaps. “You've been touchier and meaner and I just don't get it. What the hell happened? Are you sick or somethin'?”

“No,” Adam says, then shrugs stiffly, woodenly. “I'm fine. It's just—I am how I am, okay?”

Blake throws his hands up in frustration. “I can't _help you_ if you won't talk to me, you _jackass_.”

Adam's mind whispers what Blake thinks of him, what he said— _worthless, failure, “I hate everything about you”_ —and Adam scowls. He wishes Blake wouldn't waste his energy on Adam, not when he doesn't need to. He doesn't know how to tell Blake to save it, how to tell him that Adam understands now, and that Blake doesn't have to force himself to be friends anymore.

Instead, Adam says, “I don't need your help, Blake. Leave it. I'm _fine_. Just—I don't need you.”

And _fuck_ , there's so many lies there that Adam wants to laugh, but he's trying to be the good guy that Blake needs and wants him to be, he's trying to let Blake know that it's okay, that he doesn't have to take care of Adam anymore. Blake's jaw tightens, and he breathes out a loud, heavy breath through his nose before shaking his head, throwing up his hands again.

“Adam--” He cuts himself off. “Fuck it.”

Blake leaves, just like Adam wanted, just like Adam deserves.  


* * *

  
Adam throws himself into coaching. He doesn't interact much with Christina or Pharrell or Carson, and he hardly even looks at Blake now, but he gives what little he has left in him to give to his team.

His team members don't know him well enough to know that he's not the same, that he's not what he was before (and Adam reminds himself that he may be desperately unhappy, but he obviously needed to change, and this is for the best), and so all of his contestants are happy to accept his attentions. Adam's only regret is that he isn't better, that he doesn't have better advice to give them, can't make them the best they can be.

He's pushing himself hard, possibly too hard, and he gets home every night so wrung out that he can barely even think, and the hollow, cavernous ache in his torso has spread to his head now, clouding his thoughts. Adam knows he's no good, knows that he's not doing his team any good.

Deanna is barely saved, making it into the top ten by a hair, and Adam loses it.

She's so _great_ , she's so talented, and it should've been easy for her to make it to at least the finals, if not winning the whole thing, and Adam knows he must be doing something so very, very wrong if she's struggling this badly.

He spends the night after the results show sitting, surprisingly sober, in the dark on his bed, cross-legged and staring blankly at nothing, thinking of everything he's managed to fuck up so far.

 _Worthless, burden, failure_.

He thinks about how he makes people worry about him because they're just too good and they care for him even though he doesn't deserve it, and his eyes well up with tears, then, because he's so grateful to them for it (and yet he's _ungrateful_ , he must be, if he has this amazing life and fucks it all up constantly, feels so unbearably, crushingly sad when he has no real reason to, he only got what was coming to him).

Adam feels like his heart is going to explode with the weight of everything he's feeling, and he thinks _what if I never get to tell them all how amazing they've been_.

He spends the next full week writing letters to everyone who means something to him—everyone except for Blake and Behati, he can't stand that right now, not yet, but he knows he'll have to because they deserve to know how grateful and _sorry_ he is more than anyone else—telling them that he loves them, that he's sorry he couldn't be better for them, that he knows he doesn't deserve them and that he's grateful that they stick around anyway, because they're just that _good_.

Adam puts them all carefully in envelopes, addressing them and lining them up on his disused piano.

 

* * *

Carson asks a question about the “Shevine” bromance, and if Luke Bryan is cutting into it, and Adam answers for Blake. His response is a little desperate, begging for Blake to come back, to realize that Adam didn't mean it when he said that he didn't need Blake, and he gets up and gives Blake a hug, the larger man's hands on his back feeling like fire.

“ _He's mine_ ,” Adam is all but saying, and begging at the same time, “please say that you care about me at least more than you care about him.”

Blake's response is a simple, “This is probably the stupidest conversation ever had on national television.”  


* * *

 

Deanna gets eliminated and Adam tries not to cry, tries not to make it about him (selfish, that's another thing he'll have to add to his list of things he needs to change) and what he's done wrong, but it's so hard when they're talking backstage about it and he hears Blake say, “It's such a shame—Deanna was so special. If things had been different, she might've won it all.”

Adam knows what Blake means, what Blake is too kind to say: _If Adam hadn't been her coach, if he hadn't been around to fuck things up, she would've gotten what she actually deserved in this competition_.

He heads home without saying goodbye to anyone.  


* * *

Adam spends the next day writing his letter to Behati, and he throws out the first draft because it's angry and rough, filled with abrasive swears and all kinds of alarming _rage_ that he didn't know he felt and that he knows she doesn't deserve. It isn't her fault, after all, that she couldn't deal with him anymore, that she just couldn't take sacrificing herself anymore for him to be able to have someone he really didn't deserve in the first place.

He rewrites it into something thankful, something that tells her how wonderful she is and expresses his sorrow at having driven her away, having not been good enough for her, having done too little and asked too much of her. Finally, he's happy with it, and he thinks that if this is the last sentiment he ever gets to express, it's a good one.  


* * *

He thinks he's becoming a better person—less demanding of others, quieter and more considerate, more thoughtful. Adam thinks that he's doing better, that he might actually be heading vaguely towards becoming someone _good_ , and so he really doesn't understand why he's still so desperately, pathetically unhappy.

Then the thoughts slam into him so suddenly, so forcefully, that it _literally_ knocks the breath out of him.

The four coaches are sitting at the studio Starbucks, Adam fiddling with the straw of his coffee, trying not to make too much noise or distract anyone or upset them, and his mind drifts away from the conversation and his gaze follows, looking out the window. He sees the parking lot, and he thinks about how fast his sports cars can go, what would happen to him if he crashed one of them going as fast as he could into a tree or a concrete barrier or drove one of them off a cliff. Adam bites the inside of his cheek, thinking about how selfish that would be.

If he was ever going to _take care_ of himself, he thinks, it would have to be quiet, and he'd have to wait until the season was over, and he'd have to give his notice to the producers so they could find someone else for the next season--

Adam, in his distress, as he realizes what he's thinking about, must make some noise, because the other three coaches look at him suddenly. He smiles a nervous, fleeting smile and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says, “just—headache. I'm gonna go lay down.”

He locks the door, curling up on the couch in his trailer, ignoring the few knocks on the door he hears and the murmuring voices outside.  


* * *

The _thoughts_ keep coming. Adam can't help them—he'll see a skyscraper, in person or on television, and think about how easy it would be, how freeing it would feel, to just let himself fall off of the top; he'll drive by the beach and think about letting himself get dragged under the waves; he'll hear Blake talking about Oklahoma and the ranch and think about hunting and the guns and what it would be like to have that instantaneous ending.

It makes him uncomfortable, it's distracting, and Adam knows his work is suffering hugely for it. He makes an appointment with the producers, alone, bringing his lawyer just in case, and tells them that he doesn't think he'll be able to come back for season 9.

They don't seem surprised, somehow. One of them asks him if he's sick, and Adam says yes, but that he'll be better soon. They ask if he'll consider coming back to the show after he's “better”—they don't know what he means, and Adam feels laughter bubbling up in his chest that he clamps down on. He assures them that that isn't going to be possible, and thanks them for the opportunity to be part of the show.

“It's been amazing,” he tells them, tears pricking at his eyes, though he refuses to let them fall, “and you've all been so great. Just—thank you, so much. Really. It's been an honor, and more than I ever deserved.”  


* * *

It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to realize that his subconscious mind was trying to show him the right thing to do. When Adam realizes what he's been doing, how he's been pushing people away—the band, his mother, his brothers, _Blake—_ and then resigning from the show, and writing those letters, those notes--

He's been preparing for this, he's been trying to get himself to let go of his life for months now. Adam thinks about his life and he thinks about death and he realizes that dying is the only way he could ever help the people he cares about.

(Adam doesn't want to die, he just doesn't want to live.)  


* * *

 

  
The producers don't mention that he's not returning until after the finale. Christina wins— _finally_ , good for her, Adam thinks—and Adam begs off the after-party. No one tries very hard anymore to get him to come, having gotten used to the way he now keeps quiet, keeps to himself, goes home early.

Adam goes home and turns on all of the lights, walking through the house, making sure all of the rooms are clean, touching all of his things, saying goodbye to them. He thinks hard about the last few months, and he knows it's time. He's tried so hard to be better, to do better, and it still didn't work. He was still alone, he was still fucking things up, he was still worthless.

He bites his lip, running his hand over the piano, looking at the letters, Blake's name conspicously absent from any of the envelopes.

Adam thinks, vaguely, that he owes it to Blake, if nothing else, to thank him for putting up with him for so long, for doing so much more for him than he ever deserved.

He calls Blake on a whim, totally sober but feeling a little tipsy, a little giddy. The sounds of the party filter through the phone as Blake picks up.

“Adam?” he answers, instead of saying hello. He sounds surprised, and a little breathless. Adam wonders what Blake was doing when he called.

“Hi,” he says, and now that he's actually talking to Blake, this doesn't seem like such a good idea. He has no idea how to say what he needs to say, what Blake deserves to hear. “Good party?”

“I guess,” Blake says slowly. “You should be here.” Adam smiles at the polite statement, though he knows it isn't true.

“Nah,” he says.

“What's goin' on, Adam?” Blake asks after a long moment of silence. Adam knows that he's not asking the question as in “why did you call” he's asking as in “what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I thought you should hear it from me,” Adam says abruptly, his heart rate picking up, nerves starting to get the best of him, “before the producers announce it, but—I'm not coming back to the show next season.”

There's another drawn-out pause, and then Blake sighs roughly. “Can't say I'm surprised,” he says. “I just don't know _why_.”

“I'm—there's something else I need to do instead,” Adam says. “Kind of mutually exclusive.”

“Adam—damn it,” Blake swears, a growl in his voice that makes Adam shiver. “I'm coming over.”

Before Adam can say no, Blake's hung up on him. He bites his lip again, tasting blood—this is not going the way he'd planned.

 

* * *

  
Blake's at his door in under twenty minutes, and Adam wonders how much he paid the cab driver to speed that much. Adam opens the door without complaint, letting Blake in wordlessly. It gives him an eerie feeling of deja vu, making him think back to the last time Blake barged his way in.

Now the taller man is staring intently down at Adam, nothing but confusion and deep concern on his face. It's unsettling to Adam, who wants Blake to just leave so he can get on with—get on with _it_.

“I really want a drink,” Blake mutters, speaking for the first time since entering Adam's house.

“I have tequila, I think,” Adam offers awkwardly, but Blake shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No, I'm actually—I haven't had a drink in weeks,” Blake tells him, and Adam blinks at him.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Blake says, licking his lips. “I guess you wouldn't have noticed 'cause you never come out with us anymore, but I've been sober for five weeks.”

“Wow,” Adam says, a genuine smile crossing his face for the first time in months. “That's—that's amazing.”

“Thanks,” Blake answers, accepting the praise with a small grin of pride. The expression soon reverts back to the earlier, unsettling concern. “Adam, would you please just tell me what's going on with you?” Adam can't look at Blake anymore, can't stand seeing those big blue eyes looking at him like _that_ , with so much genuine feeling that he knows he shouldn't want, knows he doesn't deserve--

He turns away, walking into the living room and perching himself on one small corner of the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. Blake follows him, sitting himself down less than a foot away from Adam, ignoring all of the empty space on the couch.

“ _Adam_ ,” he persists. “Please—something is seriously wrong, I've known it this whole time, but you wouldn't talk to any of us, you wouldn't let us help you--”

“It's okay,” Adam interrupts, staring at his hands because, selfishly, he doesn't want to feel the guilt he knows he would if he looked up and saw the worry and the hurt on Blake's face. “I've just... Like I said, I have something else I need to do.”

“What is it?” Blake asks, and Adam shakes his head. Blake lets out a frustrated huff and reaches out one hand towards Adam, quickly snatching one of Adam's own hands before the smaller man could pull away. Blake frowns at how bony Adam's gotten. “I'm so fucking worried, Adam, you have no idea. I called the producers on the way over and they told me you said you were sick--?”

Adam can't help it this time—he laughs, and it shuts Blake up immediately. Adam keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “It's—yeah, I am.” He knows he is, knows that none of this is normal, but there's nothing else he can fucking _do_ because he's fucked up so much and so badly that there's nothing left--

“What is it? What's going on?” Blake asks urgently. “How can I _help_?”

“You can't,” Adam answers slowly. He doesn't say “you shouldn't” because something tells him Blake wouldn't want to hear it.

One of Blake's hands is cradling the back of his head so fucking gently that the action in itself makes tears burn painfully at the back of Adam's eyes. “ _Please_ , Adam. I just—are you—how serious is it?” He hears what Blake wanted to ask—is he dying?

He doesn't know what to say to that, not really, because truthfully, he wasn't _dying_ , but he was still _going_ to die, and Blake takes his silence for an answer. The next thing he knows, Adam's being hauled into Blake's lap, a familiar-but-foreign sensation he's missed _so fucking badly_ and he tries half-heartedly to pull away, Blake wrapping strong arms around him, holding Adam fast to him.

“We'll figure it out,” Blake says, voice rough, and Adam thinks with astonishment that it almost sounds like the other man is going to cry himself. “You'll be okay, we'll figure it out--”

Adam wants to be selfish so badly in that moment, wants to bury his face in the crook of Blake's neck, let Blake comfort him, let Blake take care of him, but he's tried _so hard_ these past few months and he doesn't want it to be in vain, doesn't want his hard work to go to waste, and he tries pulling away again.

“ _Adam_ ,” Blake sobs, and then Adam breaks, too.

 

* * *

  
He wakes up slowly, the faint sound of Blake's low, slow drawl filtering in from outside the room—he's in bed, he realizes slowly. Adam frowns; he was on the couch, with Blake. What happened?

Adam takes a moment, lying still, waiting for Blake to say something he can hear or for the other man to come back in or for _something_ to happen. Finally, Blake raises his voice—he sounds upset, and Adam curls in on himself slightly, wondering if it's his fault. (Probably.)

“God _dammit_ , don't you think I _know that_? I know—no, I don't—no, I just— _would you shut up_ for a damn minute and let me _talk_? Thank you! I don't know what's wrong with him, not really, but I don't think he's been 'sick' like he's sayin',” Blake says, and Adam gnaws on the inside of his cheek—he _did_ upset Blake. “Yes, somethin' _is_ wrong with him, I'm not sayin' he's fine and dandy because he sure as hell _ain't_ \--” Adam tries not to snort at that, because Blake only says “ain't” when he's impassioned, so it's always funny to hear when he goes full-on _country_. “Fuckin' hell, Christina, _I know that_. ...yes, I know. I just—what? Yeah. Sure, I guess... I'll talk to you later, then.”

There's a long moment of silence before Adam jumps, hearing a loud thud that he strongly suspects is Blake's fist hitting the wall.

The door creaks open again, and Adam blinks at Blake.

“Hey,” Blake says.

“Hi,” Adam answers. It's awkward, the air between them thick with tension, and it hasn't been like this since the first time they met and Adam could tell Blake wanted to make a crack about his skinny jeans or his hair but didn't know how comfortable Adam would be making fun of himself. “How's Christina?”

“Heard that, huh?” Blake asks, voice a little sheepish. Adam nods mutely. “She's fine, I guess. Not comin' back for season 9 either, but she said she wants to be there for 10. She just committed to a charity thing—I think CeeLo roped her into it.” Adam nods, waiting for Blake to get to the point. “We were talkin' about you.”

“I heard that, too.”

“I called her to ask if she knew what the hell's goin' on with you.” Blake sits down on the bed, only inches away from Adam, staring at him with that earnest, intense gaze—there's always been something about Blake's eyes that Adam finds both addicting and kind of freaky, the way they're a little too wide and how he doesn't blink enough, staring at whoever he's talking to like they're the most important thing in the universe. (Adam knows that he isn't, knows that that's not true, and it's okay, he's made peace with that fact by now.)

“What'd she say?”

“She only knows what the producers told us,” Blake says. “That you're sick with somethin', and it's serious.”

“But you don't believe that.”

“Not they way they mean it, no,” Blake agrees slowly. “I snooped around, after you fell asleep—you were out like a light, I managed to get you in here so you wouldn't get a crick in your neck or anythin'.” Adam nods in thanks, and Blake clears his throat awkwardly. “There weren't any pills, any doctor's notes, nothin' layin' around. I figure if you were _sick_ -sick, there would be.”

“Seems that way,” Adam agrees, and he can't look at Blake anymore, choosing instead to stare at the blanket covering his knees.

“What's goin' on with you?” Blake asks for what feels like the thousandth time. His voice is pitched low, worry shining through over a mess of other dark, anxious emotions. “Adam, please—I know I haven't been much of a friend to you these past few months—I had my own issues, getting' in the way, with the drinkin', but you can still _talk_ to me. _Please_.”

“You've been a great friend,” Adam protests, ignoring the rest of what Blake had to say, because this is what Adam meant to say in the first place when he called Blake the night before. “Seriously. You've done more for me than I could ever have asked, and--”

“Are you kiddin' me?” Blake says, incredulity dripping from each syllable. “Adam, I've been _awful_ to you. I knew somethin' was goin' on with you, somethin' real bad, but I let myself get so wrapped up in my own shit that I didn't even _try_ figurin' out what it was, and now—it's gotten bad, I can tell. Whatever _it_ is. Would you please just _talk_ to me instead of changin' the subject?”

“I can't.”

Blake makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl, and in his peripheral vision, Adam sees him run a hand through his hair. “I found those letters you wrote. I read a couple, and—what happened with Behati?”

“She left,” Adam answers simply. The pain and anger associated with that thought are mostly gone now, replaced instead by regret and longing. “Last winter.”

“Christ,” Blake says, shaking his head, and Adam finally looks up, although he doesn't even try to meet Blake's eyes, instead staring at his plaid shirt. “Why didn't you say anythin'?”

“I didn't—you had your own shit to deal with, and I couldn't—I don't know,” Adam mumbles, shrugging jerkily. “I just couldn't.”

“Those letters—they kinda freaked me out,” Blake says slowly. “They seem kinda... like you weren't plannin' on ever talkin' to any of those people again.”

“Because I wasn't,” Adam doesn't say. He clears is throat and actually _does_ say, “It was just—I felt like I needed to get stuff of my chest.”

Blake doesn't look convinced. “Some of them were... kinda intense, I guess. Like that one for Deanna—I didn't realize how hard it hit you that she went home.”

Adam shrugs again. “She's just so special.”

“Yeah, she is,” Blake agrees readily. “She'll make it, though—she got her exposure on the show, and someone'll pick her up.” Adam nods in agreement, in hope. “I—should I be as worried about you as I am? 'Cause Adam, you're scarin' the _shit_ outta me.”

“I'm fine--”

“Like _hell_ you are,” Blake growls, hands going to Adam's cheeks, forcing them eye-to-eye. “I need to know what's goin' on in your head, Adam, 'cause I sure as hell hope it's not what I think's goin' on.”

“Why?” Adam asks, tempting fate, licking his lips, trying to squirm away from Blake, but the man's grip is unyielding. “What're you thinking?”

“How depressed are you?” Blake asks flatly instead of answering the question directly. “Because what I'm thinkin'—I _really_ hope it ain't true.”

“What're you thinking?” Adam asks again, voice too low and too rough and almost confirmation on its own. Blake's jaw clenches, then he takes a deep breath and answers.

“I think you're thinkin' of doin' somethin' pretty damn _stupid_ ,” Blake bites out. “I think you're thinkin'--” He doesn't finish, breaking off and instead wrapping Adam in a bear hug. It's too tight and Adam's nose is pressed uncomfortably into Blake's collar bone, but it's been so long, and it's so _perfect_ \--

“I'm fine,” Adam lies yet again, “I just—I've been having a rough time. Lately. Y'know?”

“You're not _fine_ , Adam,” Blake answers, his voice muffled by his face pressed into Adam's shoulder. “I just wanna help. Tell me what's goin' on.”

“I--” Adam stops, then wraps his own arms loosely around Blake. “I tried, _hard_.”

“Tried what?”

“To change,” he answers, “to be better.”

“For Bee?” Blake asks, sounding tentative and confused.

“For everyone.”

“Adam--” Blake breaks off and then lets go of Adam, pulling away slowly. He gets up, but it's only because he goes to sit down on the other side of the bed, pulling Adam into his lap again like he had the night before. Adam immediately melts into him, allowing himself to be selfish, allowing himself to take the comfort that he's been craving. “Why were you tryin' to change? 'Cause Bee left?”

Adam nods, thankful that he's settled in such a way that he isn't going to have to look at Blake, head on his shoulder. “And 'cause I needed to, in general.”

“Why?” Blake sounds so genuinely bewildered that Adam almost laughs, but he's too confused himself.

“I'm an asshole,” Adam says simply. “Annoying and arrogant and stupid--”

“Hey, hey,” Blake interrupts him, voice stern but gentle, somehow. “Why do you think that? Did Behati say that?” Adam stiffens in Blake's arms, unsure of how to tell Blake that _he'd_ said those things (not really, not in those words, but what he'd actually said was so much _worse_ ).

“I think that 'cause I am, and we both know it,” Adam settles on saying, tone matter-of-fact instead of accusatory. Blake's arms tighten around him.

“I don't know a damn thing about that,” Blake rumbles in the way he does when he's angry and his voice is too low and his twang is thick with emotion. “I—you know how much I love you, don't you?”

Adam thought he did. Maybe before this year, before, before, _before_ , but he nods anyway because Blake seems to want him to and he just wants to make him happy.

“Sure,” he says simply.

“Then why won't you _talk_ to me?” Blake asks, edging on desperate. “I'm still totally lost here as to what's goin' on. What're you _talkin'_ about?”

“I just—realized how shitty I am, as a person, and I wanted to do something about it,” Adam answers, deciding not to mention that Blake helped him realize how shitty he is. He doesn't want to make Blake feel guilty for pointing it out, because it needed to be said, he realizes that now and he doesn't blame his friend.

“Why would you think that, though?” Blake asks, sounding so thoroughly confused and upset that Adam pauses for a moment, frowning, because Blake should know the answer to that, should realize what Adam knows, should have figured out by now that he doesn't have to pretend to think that Adam is anything but an asshole by now.

“I wasn't enough to make Bee stay,” Adam says, and Blake growls but lets him go on, “and I—it's the truth, and I see it now, okay? I'm really fucking annoying and kind of useless.”

“Adam, you--” Blake stops, then manhandles him a bit until they're both still in each other's space on the bed, so close to each other that Adam can feel breath on his cheek each time Blake exhales, but now Blake's gazing at him intently, eyebrows drawn slightly together half in anger and half in confusion, and Adam wants to shirk away from the intensity of that stare. “You _can_ be annoying, but so can everyone else. I happen to like havin' you around, and I've seriously been missin' you these last few months.”

“I'm sorry,” Adam says, because it's true—if he'd have known that Blake wanted him around, genuinely, he would've done whatever his friend wanted, whatever would make him happy. (But he still thinks Blake's just pitying him.)

“And you aren't useless,” he barrels on, “You're thoughtful and talented and one of my very best friends _ever_ , and you make a lot of people happy. 'Cept yourself, apparently.” Adam stays quiet—did the distance between them give Blake enough time to recharge, to not be so sick of Adam?

“You don't have to say that,” he tells Blake.

“I do,” he says earnestly, “because you need to hear it. As many times as it takes for you to believe it, too.”

“I--” Adam shakes his head. “You don't have to be nice.”

“I'm not just sayin' it to be _nice_ , Adam, I'm sayin' it 'cause it's true.” Blake sighs again, and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed briefly. “You—I've missed you so bad. I wanted to be there for you, but you wouldn't let me, although I really didn't try hard enough, and...”

“I'm sorry,” Adam says again. “I just—I thought that...”

“You thought what?”

“I'm an asshole,” he repeats, “I just thought everyone else knew it, too.”

“You _aren't_ , though, Adam,” Blake insists. “You—why would you think that? God, Behati must've done a number on you when she split--”

“She actually—she was blunt about it, but not mean, I guess,” Adam says, defending her. “We just weren't working.”

“So why're you so—what the hell happened?”

“I just figured it out,” Adam says simply, shrugging and looking away from Blake again to focus on his socks this time. “I just—I was wondering why she would've left, what I did wrong, and I realized it was just me, and my personality, and I wanted to change.”

“Why do you keep sayin' that?” Blake asks, frustrated, one of his hands fisting the comforter in his anger, knuckles white. “There's nothin' wrong with you—if you didn't work, you didn't work, and that's nobody's fault.”

“It is my fault, though, Blake, you don't have to pretend,” Adam almost snaps. “I _figured it out_ , you helped me realize, and I--”

“What're you _talkin' about_?” Blake demands, so obviously puzzled and frustrated that Adam's brain shudders to halt for a moment before shuddering back into life. Of course Blake wouldn't remember what he said—it would've been no big deal to him, just the truth, called out in a flat, irritated moment--

Then Blake is talking again, his voice quiet and urgent and sad and apologetic, of all things, saying, “Adam, if there's _anythin'_ I said to make you feel like this, I am so sorry, okay? I didn't mean it, and I really, really want to make it up to you.”

“I—it's fine,” Adam tells him, because it's becoming more and more obvious that Blake really _doesn't_ remember what he said to Adam, although why should he? “You were just telling me what I needed to hear—someone had to say it, right?”

“ _Adam—_ for fuck's sake,” Blake roars, and Adam shrinks back. Blake takes a ragged breath, calming himself in the face of Adam's apparent anxiety. “Adam. What did I say?”

“You—don't worry about it,” Adam says, shaking his head, and then one of Blake's hands is on his jaw, forcing Adam's eyes to meet his.

“What did I _say_?”

“'You're the only artist that I hope changes one day. Like, I hope your personality changes, because it can only get better. You started out an asshole, and maybe now, you'll turn into a good guy,'” Adam paraphrases, rushing through the words because they still _hurt_ (and he never realized how much they hurt, and isn't that pathetic, because even the memory of the way Blake had looked at him made Adam's heart clench up more than anything Behati ever did).

Blake doesn't say anything for a long moment, and Adam stares down at his socks some more, knowing that Blake is turning the words over in his mind, remembering them, realizing how true they are--

“Adam.” When Blake finally speaks again, his voice is soft, gentle, and sad, even shaking a little. “Adam, look at me.” He doesn't, and Blake sighs, reaching out for him, pulling him in for another hug, holding him again just a little too tightly. “I am _so fuckin' sorry_.” Adam blinks—whatever he'd been expecting to hear, it wasn't that. “I didn't—I really didn't mean that. I didn't even remember sayin' it until just now—I was... I was really, really drunk that day.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Adam instinctively rubs one hand over Blake's back. “Miranda had started talkin' about leavin' me, the night before. 'Cause of the drinkin'.”

“But you stopped,” Adam murmurs.

“Yeah,” agrees Blake, “after she left.”

“Fuck,” Adam breathes, twisting in Blake's arms to look at his friend and quickly looking away again, burying his face in Blake's chest—his expression is too pain-stricken for Adam to look at. “When?”

“A few days after the ACM's,” Blake answers. “I stopped drinkin' to try to get her back, but that's—it's not gonna happen.”

“I'm sorry,” Adam says.

“Me too,” Blake agrees. “But what's done is done, and—Adam, I... if I'd remembered what I'd said, and how it'd hurt you, I would've stopped drinkin' right then. I am so sorry.”

“It's okay,” Adam says automatically, because he wants Blake to feel better, wants him to stop it with that expression and just be happy again, and--

“I didn't mean it,” Blake continues. “I—I really do love you, Adam. I think you're amazing, and I can't believe I hurt you that bad. _God_ , I fucked up.”

“It's okay,” Adam repeats.

“It's really not,” Blake disagrees, voice thick with emotion. He squeezes Adam before pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and, unexpectedly, Adam has to squeeze his own eyes closed so that he doesn't cry.

Blake keeps on holding him, murmuring soft apologies and reassurances until Adam finally does cry. It takes an eternity for him to stop, but Blake waits through all of it patiently, holding onto him until Adam settles back into an exhausted sleep.  


* * *

 

This time, when Adam wakes up, Blake is right there next to him. He's actually pressed up against Blake, a wet spot having formed on the bigger man's shoulder where Adam's drooled in his sleep, and he sits up after taking a moment to stretch. This is the first time in _months_ he's woken up feeling relaxed—although it's also the first time in months he's slept more than a few hours.

“Hey,” Adam says, tentatively meeting Blake's eyes. His friend has his phone in one hand, although his attention switched to Adam the instant he started stirring, and his eyes are red, and they've both been crying. Adam squirms uncomfortably.

“Hey,” Blake echoes, then clears his throat. “Are you, ah—feelin' better?”

“Yeah,” Adam answers after a long moment, and he's surprised to find that it's true, “I am, actually.”

“That's good. Listen, I just—I'm real sorry. I wish I would've been this persistent months ago and _made_ you talk to me.”

“It's not your fault,” Adam says, shaking his head. “And I probably wouldn't have listened to you, anyway.”

“You are a stubborn little guy,” Blake says, his tone light and affectionate and _this_ , this is what Adam's been missing, and he beams. “I—we're gonna have to have a real serious talk, though. About how you're feelin'.”

“Okay,” Adam cedes, unease pooling in his stomach. He doesn't want to talk about it, just wants to move on now that he knows that he's still cared for, even just a little, by someone as important to him as Blake is.

“I just wanna make sure you're not gonna do anythin' stupid,” Blake says slowly, hesitating before asking, “Were you? Thinkin' about doin' somethin' stupid, I mean?”

“I—yeah, I guess,” Adam answers honestly, a hot flush of shame spreading all over him and he looks away, looks at the headboard that Blake's leaning against, dark wood against a tan wall. “It wasn't a plan so much as... we don't really need to talk about it.”

“We really do.”

“I--” Adam shakes his head, then runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “I just had these... ideas, all the time. These thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“The first time, I thought about what would happen if I crashed my car into a barrier or a tree or something,” Adam says bluntly, the words tumbling out in a rush before his nerves can stop them. Blake sucks in a breath and Adam wants to kick himself, wants to crawl under the covers and die because he should've given any other example, should've known better than to mention a car accident (except in his daydreams, it's never an accident) when he knows what happened to Blake's brother.

“ _Fuck_ , Adam,” Blake says, voice rough, and he reaches for him, pulling Adam into his lap yet again, holding him fast to his chest. “I—the first time?”

“Yeah.”

“There've been more?”

“Yeah. Kind of a lot.”

“What's a lot?”

“A few times a day, I guess?” Adam says, and it's a lie, because until Blake showed up at his door again, those thoughts, those ideas, they'd been pretty much constant. “I don't know. It's stupid.”

“It's not--” Blake chokes, then shakes his head before burying his face in Adam's hair. “I really wish you would've told me.”

“I'm sorry,” Adam offers quietly, because he hates hurting Blake, he'd sooner give up his voice and both arms before seeing Blake looking so dejected.

“It's not your fault,” Blake tells him, sounding tired and on the edge of crying again. “I—when you called me last night, were you—were you thinkin' about it?”

“Yeah,” Adam admits. “I was—I'd written those letters, but I didn't have one for you because I didn't know how to say everything I needed to. So I called you.”

“Thank God you did,” Blake gasps, and his hand is trembling as he strokes down the back of Adam's neck. He hums contentedly at the affection, leaning into Blake's body. “I hate to think what you would've done to yourself. You're too damn _important_ , Adam, you hear me? Please don't _ever_ do that to yourself.”

“Okay,” Adam agrees easily—anything for Blake, anything to keep him happy, anything to keep him here with Adam.

“Promise me,” Blake orders. “Promise me you won't try anythin', and that you'll come talk to me if you start feelin' this way again.”

“I promise,” Adam says. “I will, Blake, I promise. I'm sorry.”

“God, Adam, me too. Me too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. There's that.
> 
> No, in the next part, Adam's depression is not magically cured. Although the combination of Blake and Behati triggered him, this version of Adam was already prone to feelings of worthlessness and depression. It's going to be a hard slog to get him feeling well again, getting his confidence up, and getting the boys together.
> 
> Again, I'm really sorry for this entire story, it's just something I needed to write and I figured I might as well post it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There are minor character OC's in here. Most of them are made-up contestants for seasons of the show that haven't happened yet, but one of them is Adam's shrink. I don't think their presence will be disruptive to the story.
> 
> 2\. Sorry, just, sorry. Also, I wanted to write a really sweet smut scene, but I don't write that, so if someone wants to write some really tender and mildly angsty sexy times, I would be forever grateful.

* * *

 

Adam's days start with pills, now. There are three of them: one for the depression, one for anxiety, and one for his ADD. He hates being so dependent on medicine, and left to himself, he probably wouldn't take them.

But, that's the thing—since he finally told Blake what was going on in his head, since the day after the finale, Adam _hasn't_ been left to himself.

Blake had dropped everything to stay with Adam during the break in filming the show—he'd called his manager, still reclining on Adam's bed, the smaller man tucked up against his side, and told him that he wasn't touring this summer, no ifs, ands, or buts about it, that he was needed in LA. He'd told his manager, as an olive branch, a compromise, that he'd work on recording some new stuff, but it had to be done in LA. He wasn't leaving.

He hung up, and Adam stared at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What?” Blake had asked, a half-smile on his lips. Adam shook his head.

“You didn't have to do that,” Adam replied. “You—touring is important, and we don't get to do enough of it, with the show. You should go.”

“Like hell,” Blake said, tone hard, though Adam could tell it wasn't aimed at him. “I fucked up _bad_ these past few months, and I'm not gonna just take off and leave you when I've got a chance to fix it.”

“But I'm not--”

“Whatever you're gonna say, Adam, _don't_ ,” Blake told him firmly, squeezing him in another one of those too-tight hugs. “Because you _are_ worth it, and I'm gonna stay put right here and take care of you until you don't need me anymore.”

“ _Then you're never going anywhere_ ,” Adam thought. He hadn't said anything, just pushed harder into Blake's side.

He hadn't argued with the man's presence again.

* * *

Adam _had_ argued with the idea of a psychiatrist, though.

Blake had brought it up at dinner (he'd cooked, because Adam still had his groceries delivered, he just didn't eat them, and it was weird, because it wasn't barbeque and Adam genuinely hadn't known that Blake could make anything else). Blake sat on the couch and Adam sat on the floor across from him, eating off of the coffee table and pushing the dogs away gently when they nosed at him, interested in the smells.

“I think you should see somebody,” Blake said abruptly into the silence, and then winced. Adam blinked at him. “That—that ain't how I meant that to come out. Fuck.” Blake shook his head. “I just—I don't think I'm exactly _qualified_ for this. I don't want to fuck up.”

“Don't worry about it,” Adam said, because he's starting to get that Blake cares about him more than he realized (more than he deserved, his brain whispered). “I'll—it'll be fine. I promised, right?”

“You promised not to—do somethin' stupid, but I don't want you not to because you promised, I want you not to because you don't _want_ to.” Blake scowled down at his plate. “If that made any sense at all.”

“It does, I guess,” Adam agreed, and he thought he was catching on—Blake didn't want Adam to be dependent on him, he wanted Adam to be able to function so that he could leave without feeling guilty, so he could get back to his life, get back to touring and recording and his ranch. Adam bit his lip, then pushed away his plate, still mostly full. “Who—what were you thinking?”

“Well--” Blake stopped, looking hesitant. “I don't—I started seein' somebody after I quit drinkin'. She's a real nice lady, and she... it helps.”

“Okay,” Adam said. “I'm glad.” He was, he really was—it was kind of ridiculous, Adam thought, the way he felt a burst of second-hand pride whenever he thought about Blake's sobriety. He knew he hadn't ever seen the worst of Blake's drinking—that had been before any of them, back in Ada, when he was fifteen or so and he wasn't far enough removed from Richie's death to think clearly and he'd made sure to make a mess of the rest of his life around him. Still, it had gotten pretty bad—Adam had, more than a handful of times, gone to collect Blake from a bar or a restaurant or a club when the bartender called. Blake never remembered those nights in the morning.

“Yeah, I just—I asked her what we should do,” Blake admitted, “and I'm sorry for talkin' to a stranger about—you, and everythin', but I was _way_ outta my depth on this one—still am.” He ran his hands through his curls, making them stand up, and Adam's lips quirked because that was adorable. “She suggested a, uh, psychiatrist. She thinks you need somethin' a little more urgent and immediate than just, y'know. Therapy.”

Adam had never seen Blake that awkward before, and he was so stuck on the way that Blake was shifting back and forth in his seat, looking at Adam with a combination of pleading and nerves, that it took him several long seconds before he actually understood what Blake had said.

“I—really hate medicine,” Adam had said slowly.

“I know, and I'm sorry, but I still think you should talk to 'em,” Blake said in a rush, obviously having anticipated Adam's protests. “It couldn't hurt to talk to 'em, right? After that, if you think it isn't gonna help, you don't have to take their pills and you don't have to go back, I promise, I won't make you. Just, try it?”

“I _really_ hate medication,” Adam had repeated, and Blake had nodded.

“I _know_ , I really do, but please, for me? Just go once.”

He'd been planning on digging his heels in, getting rid of the crushing weight in his chest with yoga and music and forcing himself into being and doing better (because as much as Adam had thought he'd been doing all of the right things, distancing himself from everyone, apparently he hadn't changed in the right ways, but now he had Blake to guide him and he could fix that, too)--he'd been planning on it right up until Blake said “for me.”

“Fine,” Adam agreed slowly, warily. “I'll go. _Once_.”

“That's all I'm askin',” Blake had assured him, looking relieved and somewhat pleased. “Thank you.”

* * *

The shrink turned out to be a nice older woman who asked Adam to call her Tiffany. She had a mop of gray curls, sticking out in all directions like springs coming out of her head. She dressed like a hippie, all flowing sweaters and loose pants, and Adam found himself relaxing despite himself as he looked at her and her cheerfully colored and cluttered office.

“Adam—may I call you Adam?” He had nodded. “Adam, your friend told me you've been having a hard time.” Tiffany hadn't pretended not to know who either of them were, but she hadn't mentioned it, either.

“I guess,” he agreed.

“I need to ask what's going on up there,” she said, a small, kind smile on her face as she gestured to his head with a pen. “And I'm sorry, but it's going to be a really uncomfortable conversation.”

“Okay.” Adam pulled his legs up into the chair, sitting in gomukhasana, letting his arms rest on his legs. He reminded himself that he promised Blake he would do this, and he needed to keep his promise because Blake didn't have to stay, didn't have to make him feel better (shouldn't bother), and this is the least Adam can do.

Tiffany's smile became a grin as she took in his yoga pose, and then she was back to serious and sympathetic. “How long have you felt depressed?”

“Don't you have to diagnose that first?” Adam had asked, avoiding the question. Tiffany rolled her eyes.

“That's a bunch of bullshit,” she'd said, and it had actually startled a laugh out of him. “People aren't as stupid as we all like to believe. Depression is easy to spot, when you're looking for it. People know when they're depressed, as opposed to when they're just sad or upset. How long have you known?”

Adam frowned. “I've realized for a while, I guess. A few months? Since February, probably.”

“That is a while,” she agreed, scribbling down something onto her legal pad for the first time since he walked in. “And how long have you felt this way?”

“God, I don't know.” He didn't—he couldn't pinpoint it, not then. It might've been when Bee left, it might've been when Blake said... what he said (and Adam had promised that he'd try to forget “all that horseshit that came tumblin' out of that drunk mouth,” as Blake put it, so he tried not to think the words). Adam winced when he thought of that day, what Blake said. “Since January?”

“Okay,” Tiffany said easily, accepting his guess. “And how _are_ you feeling?”

“Okay,” Adam answered after a moment. It wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't really a lie, either. That crushing, choking desperation, that feeling that there wasn't anything else he could try to make his life _work_ , that he had no options and should just lay down and die—that feeling was gone. The void, that hollow, aching feeling in his chest, his belly, his head—that remained. That part of his mind that reminded him what he really was (stupid, weak, arrogant, worthless) didn't leave, either.

He noticed Tiffany looking at him skeptically, a gentle demand written on her face, ordering him to explain himself, to continue. “Relatively okay. Better.”

She nodded again. “That makes sense. Talking to your friend must've been cathartic.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Are you currently having any suicidal thoughts?” she'd asked, and the air had rushed out of Adam, because as often and as longingly as he'd thought about dying, thought about doing something about it, taking his own life, he'd never, even a single time, thought the word “suicide,” and Blake had never said it, and-- “Adam. Breathe.”

He does, filling his lungs and breathing out again slowly. “I—no?”

“Were you?”

“Yeah.”

“And how long has it been since they stopped?”

“Just—a few days,” he answered. Since Blake came over and didn't leave, really. Tiffany seemed to know what he meant and wrote that down, too.

“How frequent were these thoughts, when you had them?”

“Um--” Adam bit his lip. “Always?”

“Constant?” Tiffany asked, not sounding surprised, just gentle. “For how long?”

“A month or so,” Adam admitted. “It was—I didn't have them all the time, they just—happened. And then I couldn't stop.”

“That's normal,” she said, “for people who have those thoughts. The idea takes hold and doesn't leave, right?” Adam nodded, grateful that she understood, that she wasn't judging him, that she wasn't going to throw him in a psych ward. “Did you ever act on these thoughts?” Adam shook his head slowly.

“No, but—I thought I might,” he confessed, shifting uneasily and chewing on the inside of his cheek again. “Before I called Blake, I was—it was a bad night, I guess.”

“What were you thinking of doing?” she asked. Adam shrugged.

“I don't know. I didn't really have a _plan_ or anything, I just—knew I needed to do something.” He paused for a moment, thinking back to that night that felt so long ago now even though it had been less than a week. “The ocean, maybe. Or—I have some really fast cars.” He wasn't saying it, couldn't say it, but Tiffany seemed to understand.

“And you have no urge to act on that now?” Adam shook his head.

“I promised I wouldn't,” he explained, and Tiffany nodded, gracing him with a soft smile.

“That's good.”

They talked about a few other things—would he be home alone for long, did he have a history of this kind of thing, did he have any other conditions—and he left the office with two prescriptions, one for the depression and one for his ADD.

Blake looked at him, eager and hopeful, when Adam emerged from her office. “How'd it go?”

“Fine, I guess,” Adam answered. He held out the prescriptions. “She gave me these.”

“Are you gonna take 'em?” Blake asked. Adam shrugged.

“I'll give it a try.”

Blake's approving, reassured grin was like a balm for Adam's frayed nerves, and he felt the tension in his chest ease a little.

* * *

The antidepressant didn't work overnight. Instead, it took about two weeks before Adam felt something, felt different.

When he did, it wasn't anything good.

He was in his bathroom, taking a bath and listening to the faint sounds of Blake's guitar in the living room—they kept the doors open all the time, no matter what, because Adam could tell that Blake didn't like not being able to get to him, he was still so worried about Adam because Adam wasn't getting better fast enough, wasn't trying hard enough—and drinking hot tea (in the summer, yes Blake, it really _isn't_ that hot, just man up) when he thought about what would happen in a month or two.

Blake would go back to filming _The Voice_ , and Adam would—he'd have nothing. He broke up the band, stopped talking to his family, quit the show—Adam would be alone again when Blake left, he'd be left just like he was after Behati left him, with his too-big, empty house and his pathetic, gnawing depression--

Blake came running when he heard a crash, Adam's mug lying cracked on the tile beside the tub. Adam himself had been in the cooling water, knees pressed against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself, breathing too quick and too shallow, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Adam—are you okay?” Blake asked, kneeling beside the tub, reaching out to grab one of his friends wet shoulders. “Adam— _Adam_.” His eyes snapped open and he looked at Blake, his expression one of blind panic. “Jesus, Adam. What happened?”

“I don't know,” he said, voice shaking just as badly as his body. “I—everything was fine, and then I don't know, I just kind of freaked out, I guess.” Adam gave him an unconvincing half-grin. “I'm fine, now, you can--”

“Hell no,” Blake cut him off, refusing to leave. “What were you thinkin' about?” His voice was wary, and Adam knew he was expecting the worst, for Adam to have been thinking about _that_ again.

“Nothing, it's stupid.”

“Adam, don't do this again, don't shut me out,” Blake insisted. “I just wanna help.” Adam let out a breath and looked at the water.

“I just thought—you're going back to the show soon,” Adam said quietly. “I don't know what I'm gonna do with myself, then.” Blake sucked in a breath and Adam flicked water at him. “Not like _that_ , Blake. I just... I quit, y'know? And I told the guys to fuck off, broke up the band, I haven't called my mom in months, and I... it just sucks that I'm gonna be alone again.”

“Of course you aren't,” Blake said flatly, as though this should be obvious. Adam looked at him, puzzled. “I'll still be here. The studio isn't far, I'll be comin' and goin' all the time 'til you get too sick of me and tell _me_ to fuck off.” Adam laughed and shook his head.

“Like that's gonna happen.”

“Then I'll be here,” Blake promised. “And the guys _love_ you like crazy, Adam. I'm sure if you called 'em and just talked to 'em instead of sittin' in your bathtub thinkin' about it, they'd take you back. They'd be crazy not to.” Adam's smile was a little easier, a little more genuine, because he knew Blake was probably right. They'd been through so much shit together, it would be crazy for Adam not to even try to apologize for blowing them off. “And I'm not even gonna get started on your mom. Just call her—you'll probably get one hell of an earful about your silent treatment, but she'd be over here in a heartbeat if she even so much as got a tinglin' idea in her little toe that you needed her.”

Adam laughed. “That was so _country_.” He shook his head. “Thanks. Again.”

“'Course,” Blake said, taking this as his cue to leave, picking up the chipped pieces of the mug before he went.

* * *

“You had a panic attack, it sounds like,” Tiffany had explained to him.

“Why would I do that?” Adam asked, frowning. “I've been so—I was just like a zombie, for months, not really thinking or anything, and—man, this is stupid and fucked up.”

“Anxiety and depression go hand-in-hand,” she told him gently. “You were probably too depressed, too numb and focused on sadness that you didn't give yourself any opportunities to become anxious.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” he said, and they talked for a while about it. In the end, Adam realized that it was ridiculous that he hadn't had a panic attack _before_ , because he was so hyperactive and controlling at the same time.

He left her office with another new bunch of pills that he promised Blake he would take.

* * *

It wasn't as bad as Adam had thought it would be, when he had the guys over. Blake offered to cook again, and Adam was eager to exploit his friend's unknown talents, and had agreed.

An hour before they arrived, Adam stood barefoot on the kitchen tile, biting his lip as he watched Blake's slow, easy movements, chopping something. Blake glanced back over his shoulder, frowning at Adam.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just--” Adam breathed out noisily. “Should I tell the guys not to bring drinks?”

“I can handle it,” Blake said with a shrug. “Now, shovin' a margarita under my nose is probably a bit uncalled for, but I can be around it okay. Hell, I'd have to quit the business if I couldn't handle bein' around booze.” He laughed easily, then knocked his shoulder gently against Adam's. “Thanks, though, for thinkin' of it.”

With all of them back together, gathered around the living room, golf on the television for background noise and the easy chatter of friends, Adam almost felt normal again, almost felt like he wasn't going to fall apart without those three pills in the morning and those constant hugs from Blake.

The guys waited until after dinner to ask him what'd been going on. Adam, sitting on the floor, leaned back against Blake's legs, one of Blake's hands resting on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. (“Whatever you want to tell them is fine, Adam,” Blake had assured him. “I'll go with whatever. You don't have to tell 'em anythin', but you shouldn't be—you shouldn't be afraid of tellin' 'em the truth, if that's what you wanna do.”)

“I'm sure you guys all heard rumors that I was sick, and that's true,” Adam said carefully, eyes darting from one worried face to another. “I kinda freaked out about it, thought everything was worse than it actually is, y'know?”

“Of course you did,” PJ spoke up. “You're such a fatalist.” The teasing broke down some of the tension, and Adam grinned at him.

“Are you okay?” James asked, and Adam shrugged jerkily.

“Not really, yet,” he answered honestly, and Blake gave his shoulder another squeeze before rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. Adam leaned into it, glancing up backwards at Blake to smile at him before continuing. “I'm taking care of it, though, going to a doctor and everything. I'll be fine, it'll just—take a while.”

They seemed to accept this, and after promising to kick his ass for being an idiot once he's better, everything was normal again, and they're yelling at the television and making noise, screwing around with a variety of instruments and that was that.

* * *

(Adam did call his mother, of course, but he chickened out at the last minute and handed the phone to Blake. “Go ahead and tell her... just tell her,” he'd instructed, and Blake had nodded sympathetically.

His mom had shown up an hour later, crying her eyes out, and Adam was crying too, and they laid hugging each other tightly on Adam's bed while she told him how glad she was he was okay, he was doing better, and how disappointed she was that he hadn't talked to her, and how much she loved him.

Blake was right, though—it helped.)

* * *

The lease on Blake's rental house ran out, and Adam found him on his phone looking at real estate apps. “Getting another house?”

“Yeah,” Blake sighed, “I'm gonna have to—filmin' for the show starts in a few weeks. I'm thinkin' of buyin' somethin'.”

“That's stupid,” Adam blurted before he could stop himself, and sometimes he got annoyed with how much he lacked a filter around Blake, saying any stupid thing that came into his head, but he kept going, “you hate LA. Why would you do that? You'll want to go back to the ranch, eventually.”

“Yeah,” Blake said again, shaking his head. “It just seems like a waste to be here all the time and not have a place, y'know? It's just annoying to have it all be so short-notice. Feels like I'm scramblin'.”

“Stay here,” Adam offered bluntly, shrugging when Blake looked at him with some inscrutable expression he couldn't identify, and he wondered if he'd crossed some line, if he was pushing too far, making Blake uncomfortable, being too needy, too stupid--

“I'd be in your hair,” Blake said, but his tone was... hopeful?

“Nah,” Adam disagreed. “You're here all the time anyway. I've got plenty of room.”

“If you're sure,” Blake said slowly. “Until I find somethin'.”

“Sure,” Adam said easily, trying to ignore the _feeling_ in his stomach (what was that? It wasn't the empty sadness of the past few months, or the churning of anxiety—he decided not to dwell on it). “It'll be fun.”

Blake moved in and nothing really changed, except that Adam got a gun safe and one of his guest rooms (Blake's room) had a fucking _mounted deer head_ , and it was creepy as fuck. He didn't say anything, though—if Blake was going to humor him, take pity on him and stay, then Adam at least wanted him to be comfortable.

* * *

His “recovery” as everyone (Tiffany, his mother, Blake) had taken to calling it didn't happen in a straight line.

It wasn't like he took his pills every morning and got a little better each day. Sometimes, like when he had the guys over, pounding out lyrics to a new song or messing around, rehearsing old ones, Adam felt almost normal, almost happy. Blake would be lounging on his couch while Adam watched TV, messing around on a guitar and singing Johnny Cash or George Strait, and Adam would feel like everything was going to be okay, like he could do this, like “tomorrow” wouldn't be the huge hurdle he'd made it out to be.

And then there were days where he didn't get out of bed in the morning, didn't even reach over to pull the cord on the blinds to let light into the room. Blake would knock on the door, and Adam would grunt for him to come in, and Blake would ask, “Are you okay?” Adam would grunt again. “Are you not gettin' out of bed 'cause you're tired, or 'cause you're sad?” Adam hated hearing it put that way, it made everything sound so juvenile and trivial, and he wouldn't answer, which was answer enough, and Blake would go get a guitar or his phone and sit on the other side of the bed, sometimes silent and sometimes launching into stories about wild nights in bars in Georgia or falling into mud with a bunch of hogs back in Ada. If Adam spent the whole day in bed, then Blake would bring him dinner, eating in bed with him, careful not to spill anything onto the sheets.

“I'm sorry,” Adam would always tell him at some point, and Blake would nudge their feet together or hug him or just give him one of those easy smiles.

“It's okay,” he'd say, “I'm not goin' anywhere.”

(And then there are the days where Adam only got out of bed because he didn't want to worry Blake and he had just enough energy to get up and smile and pretend like he was getting better—which, some days, he thought he was. Blake was doing so much for him, giving so much for him, and Adam—well, he would've been an awful person, even more awful, really, if he hadn't at least _tried_ for Blake.

But Blake didn't need to know about those days.)

* * *

It wasn't as hard as Adam thought it would be, watching _The Voice_ on cable like everybody else, seeing Blake there without him and someone else in his chair. They'd called Gwen back to take Christina's place again, and Usher replaced Adam.

(Usher had called, too, after the producers called him to ask if he'd step in for season 9. “I thought you were never gonna leave! It's like your baby or somethin', man.”

Adam had laughed. “Yeah, I just—I've had some shit going on, and I can't handle doing it this season.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Usher offered easily, and damn, Adam had missed him, how he just wanted to be everybody's friend and nothing more, nothing less.

“Not now,” Adam answered. “Thanks though.”

“It's nothing—you'll be okay, right? I heard you were sick.”

“I am, but I'm getting better,” he insisted, and he'd gotten so used to saying this, “I'll be fine.”

“Okay,” Usher had said, accepting the explanation and assurances. “Are you going to come back for season 10?”

“I don't know,” Adam answered honestly. “I'm thinking about it.”

“You should,” Usher told him. “The show's not gonna feel right with you—especially not without you and Blake together. That's just gonna be weird, man.”

Adam had laughed and they'd talked a little more about other things, with Adam trying to ignore that _feeling_ again in his stomach, that not-unpleasant flop when people mentioned him and Blake together.)

At least it was all people he knew and loved, Adam figured. He felt uneasy, watching the first episode, and they'd all been right—the show wasn't the same. Adam laughed as he thought that the other three coaches were just too nice, and it was making Blake look like an asshole in comparison, with his extremely competitive nature and his tendency to mouth off.

He told Blake as much, told him he might want to tone it down, and Blake shook his head and shrugged.

“I am who I am,” he'd said. “Those guys know I love 'em, and it ain't my fault if nobody can keep up with me the way you do.”

(That _flop_ and _twist_ in Adam's gut happened again then, and it was getting harder to ignore.)

* * *

 

After the results show deciding the top 4, Blake came straight home instead of going to the party even though he had two artists in the top 4, and he was so thrilled that he picked Adam up and spun him around, laughing like a maniac. He settled down quickly, though, looking at Adam with a serious, nervous expression.

“It's still not the same without you, and I was—well, I wanted to ask if you'd maybe come back next week? Be my adviser?” Blake asked, hands shoved in his pockets, looking hopeful, and Adam hit him.

“Of course I will,” he agreed easily.

It wasn't so easy to do, actually, in the end. The instant he stepped onto the lot, Adam was mobbed by staff and crew who were telling him worried they'd been, how great it was to see hm, how they wished he'd come back, how it wasn't the same without him--

Blake showed up to rescue him, whisking him away to a practice room, hovering over him with a concerned expression. “You okay?” Adam nodded mutely, his breathing still a little labored, and he realized he'd been on the verge of a panic attack again. Thank God for Blake.

“I'm good,” he said finally, “that was just a little—much.”

“Sorry,” Blake said ruefully. “But I thought maybe—lunch with the other coaches, and Carson? Is that gonna be okay?” Adam nodded, because why not? They were his friends, after all.

Blake's team members were both _amazing_ , and Adam had been voting for them like crazy the whole season (and one of Usher's guys, a kid—literally, he was seventeen—named Eric, but Blake didn't need to know about that), and it was flattering and almost overwhelming when they both freak out when they see him sitting next to Blake.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” one of them—a girl named Veronica with a crazy big voice and a slight twang—had chanted, jumping up and down and waving her arms. “I've been askin' and askin' Blake to get you in here! It's so awesome to be here, on the show, but it really doesn't seem like it's the same without you.”

“Thanks,” he'd said sheepishly.

They were both _fantastic_ , it was ridiculous how crazy good they were, and Adam couldn't stop gushing about them at lunch as they waited for their three friends to join them.

It was Adam's first time seeing them since—everything, and he bounced his leg up and down to try to quell his anxiety, leaning into Blake, who had one long, heavy arm draped around his shoulders, looking at him with a proud and indulgent grin as Adam babbled about his contestants.

“Adam!” Carson showed up first, and Adam allowed himself to be pulled up out of his seat and into a firm hug. “How've you been? What's going on? Man, we miss you like crazy around here.”

“I've heard,” Adam said, ducking his head with a small, pleased smile on his face. “I'm, y'know. Better. Getting there.”

Carson had that _look_ , the one that Adam had come to learn meant that he was about to ask “what did you have, what's wrong?” but thankfully, Usher and Pharrell and Gwen were rushing up to the table, and Blake carefully steered the conversation away from Adam's absence after that.

Thank God for Blake.

* * *

(Adam got a call from the producers the following week, and he didn't hang up on them. He listened carefully to what they had to say, and promised to think about it, to tell them how he was feeling. He didn't tell Blake, because he didn't want to disappoint him if he decided not to go back.

He swore he was trying, really, it was just so much _harder_ than he ever would've thought, even with this three little pills and Blake.

Thank God for Blake.)

* * *

Veronica got eliminated, and Adam didn't get out of bed the next day. Was it his advice to her, was it not good enough? Blake should've picked a different adviser, shouldn't have risked these kids just because he pitied Adam--

“Paul is still in this thing,” Blake rumbled from the other side of the bed, strumming his guitar idly, playing scales slowly, second nature allowing his hands to work without attention from his brain. “They both did so great.”

“Yeah, they did, but Veronica was--” Adam stopped. “It kind of feels like Deanna again, you know? I just don't get what happened.”

“I know,” Blake sighed, “I don't, either. But that choice isn't up to us, it's up to America. Nothin' we could've done, just like there's nothin' you could've done for Deanna.” Adam nodded.

(If he was reacting like this to _Blake's_ contestant getting eliminated, then... well, he just didn't think he was ready to go back.

The producers called again and told him to take the winter to think about it—they'd hold his place until the very last minute. He promised warily.)

* * *

“Do you wanna do Christmas in Oklahoma with me?” Blake asked. It was only a week before the finale, mid-December, and Adam frowned. He had come to hate the way that, whenever Blake asked him for something (to be his adviser on the show, to do Thanksgiving together, to go to Oklahoma with him) he had this cautious, hopeful, almost pleading tone to his voice, like Adam's agreement wasn't practically guaranteed to start with.

Maybe Blake didn't realize it was.

Adam didn't answer, caught up in his thoughts, and Blake barreled on, “It's just that I promised my mom that I'd go back there for the holidays and she's gonna be madder'n hell if I don't, and I was just really hopin' you'd come with me.” He stood in front of Adam, all but wringing his hands, waiting to be told no, and Adam shrugged.

“I can stay with my mom or James while you're gone, if you—if you don't think I should be alone,” Adam offered carefully, and Blake frowned at him before kneeling down, just about eye-level then with Adam, sitting on the couch, a notepad in his hand where he'd been trying to write out a new song that'd been bouncing around the back of his brain.

“Do _you_ think you shouldn't be alone?” Blake asked, and Adam bit the inside of his cheek before scolding himself—that was one of his “tics” as Tiffany said, pointing it out to him—it was something he did when he was upset, and he forced himself to breathe before answering.

“I think—I'd be okay, if I was,” Adam said slowly. “I'd just really—I don't think I'm comfortable with that, yet.” Blake nodded, looking—not happy, but satisfied, at least. Adam relaxed a little.

“That's not why I asked, though,” Blake said. “I just really want to spend time away from LA, and we both have a hell of a time at the ranch, y'know? I just wanted to do somethin' fun, like a vacation kind of a thing. With you.”

“With me,” Adam repeated, and there was that goddamn feeling in his stomach again (he'd tried to explain the feeling to Tiffany, and she had asked him if it was anxiety, and he'd said no and she'd gotten a _look_ on her face and said he should think about it and try to take note of when, specifically, it happened and that would probably lead him somewhere, and none of it made any sense).

“Yeah,” Blake said. “I mean, you don't have to, if you don't want to--”

“'Course I want to, idiot,” Adam said, and Blake's grin was nearly blinding it was so sunny. “Jeez. I just—you aren't getting sick of me? We're together like _all the time_.”

“Don't think I could,” Blake said, and his tone was light but his eyes were serious and Adam's heart did... something, accompanying the weirdness in his belly. “I'll call my mom, let her know—she'll be excited, she loves havin' you around.”

“That's just 'cause she thinks she needs to fatten me up,” Adam grumbled, and Blake shrugged, giving Adam a once-over before nodding.

“You're almost back up to fightin' weight, so she shouldn't be too bad,” he joked, and Adam threw a pillow at him.

* * *

Paul didn't win the show, and Blake was upset, but it Usher's kid Eric who won, and everyone knew how much talent he had.

Blake was going to go straight home after the finale instead of hitting up the after-party, but then Adam was there, wearing a suit and smiling at him.

“Thought I'd invite myself,” he said, “be your date and all.” Blake laughed, no longer able to keep up pouting about Paul, and held Adam's hand for most of the night.

(Adam had given up trying to figure out that _feeling_ and instead just enjoyed it.)

At one point, during the champagne toast for Eric, Adam went up to the bar and came back with two champagne flutes, taking Blake's ginger ale and replacing it with the glass.

“Adam, I don't think--”

“Shut up and drink it,” Adam ordered, rolling his eyes, “trust me. It'll be fine.” Blake eyed him dubiously, but drank, and Adam laughed brightly at him when Blake realized it was sparkling cider.

“You're an ass,” Blake said, but he pulled Adam to him for a one-armed hug at the same time, his tone light, and Adam didn't take him seriously.

Adam was so happy and Blake was so proud that he couldn't even be mad when Eric came by to be introduced to Adam and the rockstar admitted, “I totally voted for you,” making the kid stammer and blush and try not to freak out.

One of the producers pulled Adam aside, and Adam could tell that Blake was trying not to watch or listen, but that he was keeping an eye out for Adam all the same.

“Have you been thinking about it?” the man asked. “We're being totally serious when we say you can let us know the day before filming starts—I mean, you'd be kind of an ass to do that, but for you? Yeah, we'll let it happen.”

“I--” Adam glanced back at Blake who was caught in conversation with Pharrell and Gwen. Blake chose that moment to look up, taking a deliberate swig of his cider, and Adam grinned back. He turned his attention back to the producer. “Yeah. I just, I have to come back, don't I?” He shook his head, a grin on his face. “Call my lawyer—same contract as before is probably fine.”

“Thank God,” the producer sighed, relieved. “Are you—is everything okay? Do we need to make any... accommodations?” It was one of the more tactful ways Adam had been asked “are you sure you aren't going to keel over and die?” and he laughed.

“I'm pretty much fine,” Adam said. “If I need anything, I'll let you know. I'm just happy to be coming back.”

“Trust me,” he said, “everyone's happy to have you.”

* * *

They agreed not to announce it until after the New Year, when they'd shoot a dramatic promo for the new season, and Adam started thinking about how to tell Blake. He was excited, not anxious, like he'd thought he might be, and he started wondering if he needed those three little pills. He was so much better now, and he could finally see how fucked up he'd been a year ago.

He went to Oklahoma with Blake for Christmas, and laughed long and hard when he saw the Star of David Blake's mom had put on top of their Christmas tree. Adam had a snowball fight with Blake, eventually giving up and shoving a handful of the stuff down the back of Blake's shirt, causing the bigger man to growl, pick him up, sling him over his shoulder, Adam uselessly hitting his back, and dump him into a soft bank of snow.

They were both shivering after that for quite a while, Mrs. Shelton giving them that amused and disapproving look that only mothers could manage, and they settled themselves in by the fire, cocoa in hand.

Blake was telling some story that Adam wished he would've paid more attention to, because there was something about a hooker, Blake's first guitar, and his childhood neighbor's horse, but Adam got caught up in the moment, how good it felt to just sit there, how right it all was.

“You're not even listenin', are you?” Blake drawled, and Adam shrugged, unconcerned.

“Not really,” he said. “I was just thinking.”

“'Bout what?”

“I just... thank you,” he said. “For getting me here.”

“You're welcome?” Blake answered slowly, because he doesn't understand that Adam wasn't thanking him for that moment in Tishomingo.

“No, I—you didn't have to stay,” Adam said, realizing that Blake didn't understand, “you didn't have to do anything that you did for me, and I'm just really fucking glad that you did.”

Blake's expression turned fond, then, and he pulled Adam into his lap in that familiar way of his. “I'm really fuckin' glad, too.”

* * *

Adam told Blake Christmas morning that he'd decided to go back for season 10. Blake whooped and hugged him and slapped him on the back and Adam laughed at the childish display, warmth accompanying that flip-flop in his stomach, the feeling like his chest was going to burst.

“Man,” Blake exclaimed for the millionth time that day, “thank God, Adam. It really sucked without you. Gwen never sat in my lap like you do, and nobody ever came to my chair to harass me.” Adam giggled, because Blake was drinking cider again, but Adam and Blake's mom were both indulging in cocoa turned a little bit Irish.

“I'll be sure to remind you how much you missed me and wanted me back when I kick your ass this season,” Adam said, and Blake ruffled his hair a little aggressively.

“Jackass,” he said, but it was fond, and Adam leaned into his shoulder and they both turned their attention to Blake's mom who was asking yet again how the voting worked.

* * *

And now—now Adam's day starts with three pills. He takes them because Blake expects him to, although he isn't sure he needs them anymore—he hasn't had one of _those_ thoughts in months, and he hasn't had a panic attack for three weeks, and even then, it only lasted for two minutes and then he was fine.

Blake tells him to keep taking them until Tiffany says he doesn't have to anymore, and so Adam scowls and does it because it makes Blake smile at him and nod in approval.

It's the morning of their first day back together on the show, and Adam is practically vibrating with excitement, but Blake's expression turned worried late the night before and hasn't changed since.

“If you need a break, or you get overwhelmed,” Blake tells him _yet again_ , “then just tell me, and I'll make sure you're okay. Okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” Adam says, smacking Blake's hands away from the tie that Blake's wearing, where he's adjusting it for the hundredth time in ten minutes. “Seriously, quit worrying. Everything's gonna be fine—I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't think I could do it.”

“I know, I just—I worry about you,” Blake says, looking so serious and so... Adam can't identify what that other desperate emotion is, etched across Blake's face. “You were so... I was _scared_ for you, Adam, you scared the shit out of me—I worried that you weren't ever gonna be _you_ again, that you weren't ever gonna be _happy_ , and I just... I don't want that to happen again.”

“I promised I'd tell you if I started feeling like that again,” Adam says firmly, “and I will, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“So stop worrying and babying me, because I'm gonna look like an asshole on national TV if I'm the only one hustlin' up there.”

Blake laughs at him, the tension broken, and takes his hand easily as they head out to Blake's truck.

* * *

With Christina, Pharrell, and Blake in the other chairs, it's almost like he never left. The camaraderie and the banter is just as easy to fall back into as it ever was, and when it's time to start filming instead of just sitting around in their chairs waiting, Carson steps up on stage.

“Please give a warm welcome to our coaches! Mr. Blake Shelton--” Adam laughs as he sees Blake doing that stupid finger thing that he does, wiggling it at his head. “--Ms. Christina Aguilera!” She smiles and jerks her head to toss her hair over one shoulder. “--Mr. Pharrell Williams!” He just grins at everyone, giving a little wave, and Adam shakes his head, wondering how Pharrell can stay so nice, so good when he's so famous, it's _ridiculous_. “--and a very special welcome home to Mr. Adam Levine!”

Everyone seems to cheer a little bit louder for him, and Adam grins, a little more sheepish than cocky, and once everyone quiets down, Carson's asking him, “Adam, just to get it out of the way—we're so glad to have you back home with us, but can you tell us what you were up to?”

Adam's prepared for this, the producers and Carson all agreed that this was the best way to address his absence and return without feeding the rumor mill. He manages a small grin despite how giddy he feels and answers, “Yeah, of course. I actually had to step back from _everything_ for a while, including Maroon 5 and _The Voice_ , because of some health issues I was having. But I'm back now, in great shape, and ready to kick ass! Especially Blake's.” Everyone laughs, and Blake flips him off from across their chairs. Adam just grins at him, and everything is so normal, it feels so good and so right.

* * *

Adam's been giddy throughout filming because everything has just slotted into place _just so_ and that's why he doesn't see it coming.

In a complete 180 from season 9, Blake looks like a gentle giant, now. He's pulling his punches, being nicer to everyone—the contestants, the other coaches, the audience, and it throws Adam for a loop only momentarily. He follows Blake's lead, though, keeping his insults to “jackass” and “dickweed,” because he wasn't kidding when he said he was ready to _bring it_ and kick ass.

And then there's this crazy, crazy good indie guy with a rough, soulful voice and Adam _wants him_ but so does Blake—why didn't Christina and Pharrell turn, seriously? What is _wrong_ with them? It doesn't matter, that's two fewer people to steamroll—and they're fighting over him.

“Man, look,” Blake drawls, “I gotta say, first of all, that your sound is—it's raw, and that's awesome, and that's somethin' that a lot of country people get—myself included! It doesn't matter that you're not country, 'cause we share a lot of the same things.

“And yeah, Adam is seriously kick ass. I would never tell you not to pick him 'cause he's not awesome, 'cause he _is_ awesome. He's one of the most talented, caring people _ever_ , and you'd do well in his hands. This is really just all about the direction you wanna go in, 'cause the choice comes down to me, and I'm pretty great myself--” The audience laughs along with him, and Adam cracks a smile, shaking his head at Blake's antics. “--or Adam, and that's a tough one, that's a hard choice to make.”

Adam doesn't really think, doesn't really listen to what's coming out of his mouth, too busy being distracted by that warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach at Blake's words. Apparently whatever he says is good, because the guy picks him.

“Good game, Adam,” Blake says cheerfully.

“I didn't have to say anything smart, Shelton, 'cause you bragged for me,” Adam says, leaning forward to look past Christina and Pharrell to grin at Blake. “You realize you're supposed to get them on _your_ team, right?”

They laugh, and Blake seems to get Adam's underlying message— _you don't need to be that gentle_ , he's trying to say, _I got this, I'll be fine_.

It falls back into their comfortable “look, Adam is great, but I'm better” style of banter, and Adam gets comfortable, throwing out middle fingers and “you _dick_ ” when he's beaten and going to laugh in Blake's face in front of his chair when he's chosen instead of the country artist.

All in all, it really feels like he never left.

* * *

It's the last day of blind auditions and Adam's gotten back into the swing of things so well that he doesn't feel the need to be joined at the hip with Blake, instead choosing to spend time with Christina, Pharrell, and Carson sometimes. It feels like forever since they've spent time together, and he guesses it has been—they never really got a chance to talk much while he was “on sabbatical,” as Carson keeps saying.

Then there's this girl, and Adam turns after the first note because he recognizes that haunting sensation, that feeling, that tone that digs into your brain—it's what made Deanna so special, and he would love to work with someone again who has that.

The other three turn after the chorus, and when she wraps up, Adam goes first.

“Oh my god,” he says, “you're—that was _ridiculous_.” The girl is adorable, a little blushing redhead, and damn, she's just—ugh, it's so freakin' adorable, and she sounds like _that_? _What_? “You had me at that first note, so let's remember that I turned first, and—sorry, let's back up, what's your name?”

She laughs and tells him her name is Lauren, and he finishes his pitch strong, and he's telling the truth when he says that he knows exactly what songs she should sing, that he's already planning this out, that's how bad he wants her.

Christina and Pharrell don't fight as hard as he just did, and then it's Blake's turn.

“Look, far be it from me to say that Adam's not amazing, 'cause I've said it before and I'll keep sayin' it 'til I'm blue in the face—he _is_ , but you need somebody who's gonna let you do what _you_ wanna do, not somebody who's got everything planned _for_ you.” Adam rolls his eyes obnoxiously and groans “ _ugh,_ ” making Lauren laugh. “And, y'know, if you did want help figuring out what songs to do, Adam would share those ideas with me. Y'know why? 'Cause we've got each other's backs.” The audience roars and Adam sends him a warm smile.

She chooses Adam, and he's feeling pretty damn chipper.

“Love you,” Blake throws out, seemingly at random.

And it's something they've said hundreds of times before, but not lately, though Adam doesn't know why that is, and Adam suddenly--

“Love you too,” he says, or at least he thinks he does, but his chest is tight and breathing is hard and that feeling in his stomach is back in full force and--

It suddenly slams into Adam, the realization of what's been happening, what his brain and his heart have been doing without his consent, and he feels like screaming but even if he actually would in the middle of the crowded studio, he doesn't have enough _air_ and--

Blake is kneeling down in front of him, looking concerned, talking quietly to him, and seeing him is only making this _worse_ because goddammit, what if something shows in Adam's face what he just realized, what if Blake _knows_ , he'll drop him so fast Adam's head will spin, he just knows it--

Adam bolts from his chair, and he hears Blake asking Carson to call for their fifteen minute break early.

* * *

He hides in his trailer, his head between his knees, trying to breathe, trying to think--

 _God_ , he's such an idiot, such a piece of _shit_ , such a terrible person—it wasn't enough that Blake stayed with him, cared about him despite all of the reasons he never should've, Adam had to go and--

He stops that thought, refuses to think it, and his brain is jumping around.

What if Blake finds out? Adam gasps for breath, making a high-pitched whine at the thought. If he knew, Blake would be gone, just like that, and Adam would be _alone_ again—

Unless, Adam thinks, he found out and pitied Adam, and that's _worse_ than the incredibly painful thought of Blake leaving him. He doesn't—he can't—he won't take advantage of Blake like that, because Blake is _too good_ , he's always been too good to Adam, so much better than Adam deserves and he'd _die_ first before he hurt Blake, before he--

* * *

Adam doesn't open the door for Blake. He hears him outside, asking him through the door if he's okay, what happened, how can he help, does Adam want him to call Tiffany--

“Please don't,” Adam says finally. “Blake, I—can I just, can I have a minute? Please?”

There's a long pause. “Sure,” Blake says finally. “I'll be in my trailer—door's gonna be open, okay? Come get me if you need me, or text, or--”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He tries to breathe, slow and steady, and he hears Blake saying something to someone else just outside the door, and his chest is still too tight, his breathing still too quick, his head spinning and he feels like crying.

There's another knock on the door. “Adam?” It's Carson, not Blake, and somehow, that makes Adam feel better. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Adam calls out, and there's silence long enough that Adam wonders if Carson walked away.

“Can I come in, please?” he asks, and Adam thinks about it for a long moment. He really, really wants to keep his promise to Blake, because he's thought about dying probably five times in the last two minutes, and he knows he should really talk to Blake, but this is _about_ Blake, and he can't-- “Adam?”

He gets up and unlocks the door before sinking back down onto the couch, pulling himself into a tight ball in one corner. “It's open,” he croaks, and Carson swings the door open before shutting and locking it behind him. Adam waves at the couch and Carson sits down on the other end.

“Are you okay?” he asks slowly, and Adam shrugs one shoulder jerkily. “What happened?”

“I'm—don't worry about it,” Adam says instead of answering. “It's stupid, I'll be okay by the time break's over.”

“It didn't look like—Adam, did you—was that a panic attack?” Carson asks, and Adam wishes his friend weren't so _smart_. “I thought it might've been. I—do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Adam answers honestly, then sighs, rubbing his palms over his upper arms briskly. “But I probably should.”

“Okay.” His friend sits patiently, waiting for Adam to continue, and Adam wonders how he got so lucky, having friends like this, people who care about him enough to put up with his shit when he's obviously so broken and falling apart and--

“I just realized something, and it kinda sucks,” Adam says slowly.

“Okay,” Carson says again, prompting and confused.

“I'm kind of—I love Blake,” he blurts out, then covers his face with his hands, shaking.

“Okay,” Carson repeats. “I'm pretty sure he loves you too?”

“No, I'm—that's not—I'm _in love_ with Blake.” He feels so _stupid_ right now, breaking down like some preteen girl crying over a crush, but—he can't imagine, can't fathom, how he's going to go home with Blake, how he's going to work with Blake, how he's going to look at him now that he realizes how he feels, how he's going to hear that voice and see those eyes looking at him with such concern and affection, knowing that yeah, Blake cares about him, but not the way Adam wants him to, and—he just doesn't know how he's going to deal with being around someone he wants so much and just can't _have_.

“Oh.” Carson reaches out to put a hand on Adam's shoulder, shifting closer on the couch. “That's... rough.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know he doesn't feel the same way?” Carson asks abruptly, and Adam laughs, dropping his hands to look at the other man.

“You're kidding, right?” Adam says. “He's—come on, Miranda left _him_ , not the other way around—he'd still be with her if he could, and he's totally straight, and—dammit, this _sucks_.”

“Listen, he really does care about you,” Carson says. “I don't think it's as bad as you're thinking it is.”

“It really, really is,” Adam says. “I fucking _live_ with him.” Carson blinks, because nobody had realized that.

“Oh,” he repeats, then shakes his head. “You guys'll be fine. Even if he doesn't feel the same way—and I'm not totally convinced that he doesn't—he cares about you enough not to... get angry, or whatever it is you're afraid of.”

“ _That's_ what I'm afraid of,” Adam says, and then pauses, not sure how to say _I had a total mental breakdown last year, and he's been so kind and understanding and helping me this whole time, and I'm afraid that he's going to stick around just because he thinks I'm going to fall apart if he leaves, and I don't want to trap him when I don't even deserve to have him in the first place_ \--

It takes a moment before he realizes he doesn't have to figure out how to say that because he just did, he just said that out loud. He groans and puts his face back into his hands.

“I—okay, can we back up?” Carson asks. “What the hell _happened_ last year?”

“Bee left,” Adam starts, and Carson gives him a look that is sympathetic, but unsurprised, “and I kinda—there were some other things going on, but I kinda lost it. I just—fell apart. I'm sure you all saw it.”

“You weren't sick, were you?” Carson asks, voice low, making sure nobody outside is going to hear. Adam shakes his head. “I wondered.”

“Yeah. I—Blake was amazing, and I'm—it's a lot better, now. Except for today—apparently that's all it takes to undo months of work.” He's frustrated and angry with himself, because the thoughts flew right back into his head as soon as he was faced with the prospect of being alone again, of losing Blake, and--

“Breathe, Adam,” Carson orders, and Adam does, realizing that he'd started to hyperventilate again. “It'll be okay. I don't see why this has to change anything.”

“I—of course it does,” Adam says. Then one of the producers is outside, calling for everyone to get their asses back on stage, their fifteen is up. He shakes his head. “Let's just go.”

* * *

They only have a few more auditions, thankfully, and Adam manages to make it through, though he's running mostly on autopilot and they can all tell.

After Carson wraps, calling cut and letting the audience go, the other three coaches crowd around Adam's chair. Blake looks wary and worried and so much like a kicked puppy that Adam can't stand to look at him for long, switching his focus between Pharrell and Christina.

“Are you okay?” Pharrell asks bluntly, but his concern is genuine and Adam smiles.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he says, running a hand through his hair now that pissing off makeup doesn't matter. “I just got kinda—freaked out there for a minute.”

“We all saw,” Christina says, voice light and teasing, but the tension around her eyes and the corners of her mouth tell Adam that he worried her, too, and it feels like season 8 again, where everyone was always crowding around him, overly concerned, so worried, and he swallows hard, reminding himself that they are his friends and they care about him, and he can reassure them but he can't make them stop caring.

“It's fine, I'm just not used to being back yet, I guess,” he says. “I'm fine, just tired. I'll see you guys tomorrow?”

“You're not coming out with us? The end of the blinds party?” Adam snorts—they have a party for everything on this show, and he shakes his head.

“No, I'm just—tired, like I said. I just want to go home. I'll come out with you guys next time, okay? Or we can do something at my place next weekend,” he offers, not looking at Blake, even though it's basically his place, too, now.

They look appeased and leave after telling Blake to look after him. He murmurs agreement, still staring stubbornly at Adam, refusing to step aside for Adam to get out of his chair.

“Are you okay?” Blake asks. “Really?”

“Really,” Adam says, and his heart feels like it's going to explode and he still wants to scream, but he manages to smile. “I just—it's harder than I thought. Just hit me all at once.” Blake nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says. “I just—you promised, you know? Let me know when it gets to be too much, and I'll help you.”

“I know,” Adam answers, getting up and pushing past Blake, still smiling gently at him, wanting a hug from the Sasquatch so damn bad but knowing that's a terrible idea, now, with that knowledge clouding the back of his mind. “And I will, but that—came up on me so fast, there wasn't a chance to say something.”

“Okay,” Blake says again in acceptance. “We'll take it easy for a while.” He throws an arm over Adam's shoulders, and Adam has to try hard not to flinch or pull away, because this hurts him, now, this simple gesture.

This is going to _suck_.

* * *

He's right—it does suck. It sucks to live with Blake, have him around all the time, walking around without a shirt on—and he was always attractive, but since he quit drinking, he lost that beer gut he'd been getting—and it makes Adam's mouth go dry, feeling like cotton, and he wants to reach out and _touch_ , but doesn't because he _can't_ , he can't have this, can't have _him_.

Adam withdraws back into himself. Blake notices and tries to draw him out, but Adam just tells him, “I need some time. Remember how Tiffany said it would come and go in cycles, that I'd have my downs? This is one of those, and I just—need _time_.”

Blake backs off, eventually, although he's obviously frustrated and worried, and Adam gives his tequila to Christina because he catches Blake staring at it more than a few times.

Each day at the studio gets him knowing, sympathetic looks from Carson, although everyone else behaves just as they always did.

His team is great this year, and he's excited about them, and he throws himself into coaching just like he did before, and the similarities to _then_ are starting to scare him.

(Adam berates himself constantly for it—he thought he was better than that now, thought he was okay, thought he didn't need the pills and Blake's coddling, but—he's not, he feels like he's going right back to where this all began, and it's so frustrating and it _hurts_.)

* * *

He starts having _those_ thoughts again when—god, Adam can barely think about it, because it's so _stupid_. Blake kisses Luke Bryan on the cheek during one of the live shows where Luke's been his adviser and he performs for them, and Adam feels like he's going to burn to ash with the hot, angry jealousy he feels, and Adam remembers, back in season 8, when Carson asked if Luke was breaking up the Shevine bromance.

This is probably the most juvenile, stupid reason he's ever fallen apart, but Adam tries not to cry after that and retreats into his head.

They're backstage after the show, Adam's alone in his trailer, gathering his stuff before heading home, when he thinks about how much he wants Blake, how much he doesn't deserve him, how he can never tell Blake because the amount of pressure that would put on his friend just isn't _fair_ even though Adam doesn't want to live in a world where he can't have Blake however he can get him--

A flash of a thought, not even a full idea, crosses his mind—the ocean, swimming too far out--

Adam breathes deep and slow and goes to find Blake.

The bigger man is talking to his contestants, laughing that loud Santa Claus laugh every now and then, and he doesn't acknowledge Adam verbally when he approaches, just holds out his arm for Adam to slide under, leaning up against his side. Adam gives himself a moment of weakness and turns his head to bury his face in Blake's shirt. Blake's hand tightens on his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks, speaking directly into Adam's ear, voice low because there are tons of people around. Adam shrugs.

“I'm—having a bad day.” Blake stiffens, and it's obvious that he knows exactly what Adam is trying to tell him without using those actual words. “I'll be fine, I just—want to go home.”

“Okay,” Blake says easily. He makes excuses for them, and Adam sees brief confusion flit over his face as Carson watches them leave with a sad and _knowing_ look on his face.

They're in Blake's truck when Blake reaches his free hand over to rest on Adam's knee, squeezing briefly, and Adam shuts his eyes hard, trying not to cry the way that any small contact with Blake makes him want to these days.

“Thank you,” Blake says, voice level but quiet, and Adam glances at his expression—it's a strange combination of grateful, worried, and sad. “For keepin' your promise.”

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” Adam answers. “And it's not—it isn't bad. It was quick, not even really an idea, but I just--”

“You were right to tell me anyway,” Blake says firmly. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Adam says slowly, shaking his head and closing his eyes again because he doesn't want to see Blake's disappointment, “not tonight. I'll—call Tiffany. In the morning.”

“Okay,” Blake says easily.

He sleeps in bed next to Adam that night, thinking that he's a comfort to Adam while the younger man cries instead of the _reason_ that he's crying and it's so fucked up that Adam wants to scream, wants to run, simultaneously wants to never see Blake's face again and wants his friend's arms around him.

He gets the latter, Blake wrapped tight around him like a boa constrictor the entire night.

* * *

Adam chickens out of telling Tiffany what he realized. She gets it anyway, because apparently she's been waiting for him to figure it out.

She asks the same thing Carson did: “How do you know he doesn't feel the same way? Have you talked to him?”

“No,” Adam answers tersely, “and I'm not going to. I just want to forget about it.”

Tiffany purses her lips. “Why did realizing you have these feelings trigger an episode with you, Adam?”

“I don't know,” he says, and she gives him a hard look because they both know he's lying. Adam shifts in the chair and sighs and shrugs. “I—it's complicated. I still—I never understood why he stuck around.”

“Because he cares about you,” Tiffany says patiently, even though they've been over this and over this and _over this_ and apparently Adam's brain just doesn't want to get the memo no matter how many times it's said, by her, by Blake.

“I know, but I still—there's some part of my brain that thinks that it's just because he's too nice to leave when I'm so fucked up,” Adam continues, staring at his boots. “I'm still expecting him to realize I'm not going to— _do_ anything, realize I'm safe enough, and leave.”

“Why do you think that?” she asks gently.

“It's not—it isn't anything to do with Blake,” he sighs. “I know it isn't—he's never done anything to make me think that, it's just my stupid fucking _brain_. I guess I still feel like—I don't get why he stuck it out because I don't feel like I'm worth it. Even at my best, I don't feel like I _deserve_ that.”

“You should talk to Blake,” Tiffany says. Adam bites the inside of his cheek, shakes his head.

“I know I should,” he agrees, “but I won't.”

* * *

It doesn't get easier, like he'd thought it would, seeing Blake and wanting him and knowing he can never have him. He'd thought that it would be like after Behati left him, when Adam was so hurt, so sad, so angry, and then that feeling faded into distant longing.

It isn't like that. Not at all.

It's insistent, this feeling in his chest—the way that easy, comfortable warmth spreads in his belly when he hears Blake's laugh or sees him smile, or even when he calls Adam a jackass (because that's just another way he says “I love you” and Adam knows it even if other people don't get it). Adam feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner that this feeling was love—he's been in love before, of course, several times but—not like this. Never like this.

Adam tries so hard to seem normal, to keep up appearances, but eventually, he buckles under the strain.

They get to the top 10 before Adam breaks. One of his team gets sent home, and the two he has in the running still are incredibly talented, but still, having Lauren sent home? It's Deanna all over again.

He goes backstage and actually _cries_ , can't even make it to his trailer first, and then Blake is there, holding him tight and murmuring assurances (“You couldn't have done better, Adam, you have no control over what happened, she'll make it, she'll be fine, someone's going to pick her up just like they did with Deanna—you've seen how successful she is now, right? Everything's gonna be fine”) and Adam's knees give out and he fucking _bawls_.

Carson is ushering people out onto the post-show interview carpet, keeping them away from the scene Adam is making as Blake picks him up and carries him to his trailer.

“I can't do this,” Adam says. “I thought—I thought it would be fine, I thought I could lie, I thought I could do it, but--”

“Do you need to leave the show?” Blake asks. “We can have someone step in for you, if that's what you need. Just tell me.”

Adam laughs, loud and harsh and hysterical. “It's not the show.”

“Are you—okay?” He knows what Blake is actually asking. _Are the thoughts back_ , he's really asking, _do you want to kill yourself?_

And yeah, Adam really, really does, because it _hurts_ so fucking much to have Blake and not _have_ him, and he never thought of himself as someone dramatic for whom love would feel so poisonous, so torturous that he'd want to _suicide_ over it, but here he is.

“Adam—tell me what to do,” Blake pleads. “What's going on up there?” He puts one hand on the back of Adam's neck, gentle but firm, grounding him, and that simple touch burns like fire and Adam _can't take it anymore_ , he's _going_ to do something stupid, so it might as well be this.

He brings his hands up to Blake's collar, dragging him down and crashing their mouths together.

Blake seems stunned for less than a second, and then he's kissing back just as hard, just as eager, making this _noise_ , this growl that makes Adam whimper. Adam almost wants to pull back, tell Blake _you don't have to do this, you don't have to do this just to make me feel better, I'll be fine without you—I don't know how but I will because I promised—_ and then Blake's tongue is swiping at his lips, and Blake bucks his hips and Adam _gets it_.

Blake wants this—Blake wants _him_.

The realization is enough to make him gasp, and Blake seizes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, and Adam moans loudly, then pushes Blake back.

“Wait, wait--” he gasps. “We _really_ need to talk.”

Blake laughs. “I'll say. What the _hell_ is goin' on with you?” He settles himself down on the couch and pulls Adam into his lap, and Adam squirms because he can feel Blake beneath him, half-hard, and it's—wow. Okay.

He grins, a little giddy—Blake actually _wants him_. Even if it's just as fuck buddy, Adam will take it, because it means more of this, more of Blake.

“Why don't I start?” Blake says when he realizes that Adam isn't going to say anything. He nods. “Okay. I—you asked me, the morning after I came charging in tryin' to fix everythin' I'd fucked up, why I stayed with you. You were spoutin' some bullshit about how I didn't need to stay 'cause you didn't 'deserve' me--” Adam grins a little at the disgust in Blake's voice, and Blake grins back automatically, running one hand down Adam's cheek. “And. I mean, I told you then—I stayed 'cause I love you.”

“I thought--” Adam laughs, half-hysterical and half-awe-struck. “I thought you meant, y'know. That you 'love me,' like with the bromance shit.”

“Fuck that,” Blake growls. “I always hated it 'cause I never felt that way and it was like someone—someone wavin' in my face what I thought I couldn't ever have.” Adam laughs again, and Blake smiles at the sound before shaking his head, growing somber again. “Are you—the thoughts? Did they come back?”

“A little,” Adam admits, biting his lip briefly. “I was just—desperate, I guess. Like you said, I thought I couldn't ever have— _this_ , and—okay, when I say it out loud it's so stupid and pathetic--”

“No,” Blake interrupts, voice hard, gaze intense, and Adam blinks. “I'm not gonna let you talk about yourself like that, Adam, _ever_. You feel how you feel and it ain't your fault.”

“Okay,” he says. “But I _feel_ like my feelings are stupid and pathetic.”

“Jackass,” Blake mutters, then smiles at him, shaking his head.

“I just—it hurt, a lot. I guess I'm not really—stable, y'know? I don't know how to deal with... everything.”

“You don't have to know how to deal with everything, Adam,” Blake says, sounding exasperated, “'cause I'm here to help you figure it out. When are you gonna get that?” He rolls his eyes. “And the—um. Kiss?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you... wanna do that again?” Blake asks, and Adam laughs again.

“Fuck yes,” he answers, and leans in again.

It's gentle this time, lips sliding over each other, tongues meeting curiously, slowly, and Adam can feel Blake's stubble, his grin against Adam's mouth, and he brings his hands up to cup Blake's face.

Blake pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against Adam's. “I'm not leavin', Adam,” he says, “I'm not _ever_ leavin'.”

Adam knows, this time, almost fully believes that Blake is telling the truth, that he's not going to be left alone again. He knows that just because Blake wants him, too, that things aren't going to be perfect, he isn't going to magically stabilize, be suddenly okay and normal, and he's still going to have to have those three little pills every day to be okay, but it's going to be better, it's going to be easier because he doesn't _have_ to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. I hope nobody was let down--I really wasn't expecting the kind responses I got to part 1, and I hope this lives up to y'all's expectations.
> 
> Also, SPOILER ALERT, but: it fucking sucks that Deanna went home. She was my favorite and I fucking loved her (and, yeah, that bias should be readily apparent in this story, sue me).
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. There's that.
> 
> No, in the next part, Adam's depression is not magically cured. Although the combination of Blake and Behati triggered him, this version of Adam was already prone to feelings of worthlessness and depression. It's going to be a hard slog to get him feeling well again, getting his confidence up, and getting the boys together.
> 
> Again, I'm really sorry for this entire story, it's just something I needed to write and I figured I might as well post it.


End file.
